


Not Yet Free

by CaptainRex_ika



Series: If Life Could Give Me One Blessing [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Bounty, Captured, Creepy Cahir, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapping, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Papa Vesemir, Parent Vesemir (The Witcher), Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 134,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25260625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainRex_ika/pseuds/CaptainRex_ika
Summary: Sequel to Hold OnIt's been a year since Geralt and Yennefer rescued Jaskier from Nilfgaard's clutches.However, Nilfgaard still refuse to give up the hunt for both Jaskier and Ciri, leaving Geralt to guard his beloved Bard, keeping him safe from Nilfgaard, as they journey along the Path, with Ciri safely tucked away in Kaer Morhen.Nilfgaard is moving along the Continent at an alarming pace, taking over more and more of the South, leaving Jaskier fearful that Cahir will find him again and would take him away and cage him.They couldn't even being to guess what Destiny had in store for them.
Relationships: Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: If Life Could Give Me One Blessing [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1830034
Comments: 654
Kudos: 740
Collections: Geraskier, Ships





	1. Oxenfurt

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here's the sequel to Hold On!
> 
> Warning: There WILL be spoilers for those who don't know Emhyrs identity...and I'm also going to move up timelines and borrowing from Witcher 3 when it comes to the fate of Temeria.

Jaskier breathed in the pleasant Spring air, looking up at the clouds slowly floating and swirling across the vast blue expanse of sky. He tilted his head back down, looking to the side now instead and at Geralt, who rode beside him on Roach, silent as always as his sharp amber eyes kept an eye out ahead on the beaten dirt track. 

They had just left Kaer Morhen, spending the Winter there after months of wandering, though they had occasionally gone to Kaer Morhen to visit and check up on Ciri, just to make sure she was coping well and listening to Vesemir, Yennefer and the other mages. 

She was blossoming under their tutelage, becoming quicker and more confident every time they saw her. She always loved seeing them though, loving spending time with them and getting more training from Geralt and being able to talk and be fussed over by Jaskier.

They had left Kaer Morhen mid Spring the year previous, once they were sure that Ciri was settled in and comfortable, with Yennefer and Vesemir there to teach her and protect her. Ciri was sad to see them go, but she wasn’t too fussed, knowing that she would be safe with Vesemir and Yennefer. There was the memorable farewell where she stood toe to toe with Geralt and made him swear to look after Jaskier, who had flushed at the attention and at the intensity with which Ciri was glaring at Geralt – apparently she had picked up some pointers from Lambert when it came to threatening people…Geralt had just smirked and said he was glad that Lambert hadn’t taught her the ‘threaten ones manhood’ technique. 

Jaskier looked down and smiled, reaching down to pat his horse’s dappled grey neck as she nickered, which Roach replied to with a snort. 

Once they had managed to get down to the village at the base of the Blue Mountain, Geralt had insisted on buying Jaskier his own horse, stating that it would be easier for both of them to travel…and if something were to happen, then Jaskier could make a quick getaway and they would meet up later. 

Jaskier hadn’t quite liked the reason behind it, but he understood it…and he was excited to have his own horse and that way they could travel further and quicker. Jaskier had fallen in love with a white and grey dappled mare – which Geralt had approved of – and had promptly called her Buttercup – which Geralt was less enthused about, but grudgingly accepted, knowing that was just Jaskier. 

They had headed up North, with Geralt finding contracts here and there, and Jaskier playing in the inns since Nilfgaard had not yet manage to breach the North, though he did accompany Geralt on the hunts that weren’t too dangerous, just to keep Geralt’s mind at ease…and to give him more material to use to write more epic ballads. 

Though when the hunts were too dangerous, Jaskier stayed behind at the inn, occasionally playing if he felt up to it, though on edge the whole time as he waited for Geralt to return, or he barred himself into his and Geralt’s room at the inn during the night as he waited for Geralt. 

Everything had actually been quite peaceful in the North – other than the usual of people treating Geralt like absolute shit. There was no Nilfgaard, no talks of the war with those in the North believing that Nilfgaard would be defeated by Redania and their King, Radovid. 

Jaskier sighed, gaining Geralt’s attention.

“What’s on your mind?” Geralt asked as they easily trotted on, not in a rush to be anywhere. 

“Just thinking,” Jaskier replied simply. Geralt grunted, looking to him.

“About?” he pressed. 

“It’s been over a year since you rescued me from Nilfgaard,” Jaskier said carefully. “I know they’re still hunting me, since Lambert and Eskel brought back my updated Wanted poster during Winter.” 

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, waiting for Jaskier to continue.

“But…they also brought back that letter from Oxenfurt for me,” Jaskier said slowly, chewing on his bottom lip. “I was meant to be teaching these last two Winters, Geralt, like I have been for the last decade or so…and there are some books back in my rooms there, rooms that they’re threatening to reassign if I don’t show up.”

Geralt sighed, tilting his head back. They had discussed this back in Kaer Morhen when a confused Eskel had handed Jaskier the letter, having been given it as he passed through Oxenfurt on his way back for Winter. 

“Jaskier, you know that Nilfgaard will be watching Oxenfurt,” Geralt sighed as he repeated his earlier argument. 

“I know, I know,” Jaskier muttered as he shifted on Buttercup’s back. “It’s just…all of my things, Geralt…and my students.”

Geralt sighed once again as he looked out upon the road. There was always the niggling worry of Nilfgaard no matter what town they went to. Fear that whispers had gotten to Nilfgaard and that they would be waiting for them, waiting to get Jaskier in the next town they arrived in. 

Fear that they would make Geralt tell them where Ciri was, in order to save Jaskier’s life. 

He still wasn’t quite sure how Nilfgaard had found out about Ciri being his Child Surprise, it had been quite the topic of debate at Kaer Morhen the Winter just passed as Eskel and Lambert brought back the updated Wanted posters for both Jaskier and Ciri. 

_“How would Nilfgaard have found out about Ciri being your Child Surprise?” Yennefer had asked, frowning as she looked over the new posters. “It’s something I’ve been trying to figure out since I doubt Calanthe would have let people speak about it considering the lengths she went to keep Ciri from you, Geralt.”_

_“Mmm,” Geralt hummed in agreement, watching as Jaskier frowned._

_“Wait, there was that one Nilfgaard Lord that was vying for Pavetta’s hand,” Jaskier said suddenly, looking to Geralt and gaining the others attentions. Ciri perked up as she heard that._

_She hadn’t really heard much about her mother’s betrothal night, no one had really spoken about it, forbidden to by her grandmother._

_Geralt nodded slowly, trying to remember him. “The one that kept getting interrupted by the one with the bagpipes. You were standing behind him, getting ready to sing.”_

_Jaskier smiled as Geralt recalled that, giving a small nod. “Lord Peregrine of Nilfgaard. He was the one that said his **‘potent seed inside Pavetta would produce the strongest male heirs’**.”_

_“Eww,” Ciri said, screwing her nose up._

_“Right about that, Little Wolf,” Lambert agreed, looking disgusted. “Royalty, especially when it comes to betrothals, are truly fucked up.”_

_“Language,” Vesemir warned, giving Lambert a disapproving look._

_“Not wrong though,” Eskel muttered over his mug of ale. Vesemir hummed in agreement._

_Geralt frowned suddenly as he looked back to Jaskier. “Didn’t he storm out after Calanthe insulted him, though? I don’t remember him being there when Duny came in.”_

_Jaskier frowned as well, looking thoughtful as he tried to remember if he saw the Nilfgaard Lord after he had stormed out._

_“Now you say it,” Jaskier said thoughtfully. “I don’t remember seeing him either…but the rest of the evening had been rather **eventful** , so it wouldn’t surprise me if I didn’t notice him.”_

_“Perhaps another aggrieved lord told him?” Vesemir suggested easily. “I am sure there were many displeased lords that night, seeing as Pavetta already belonged to another – not that anyone knew that.”_

_“Perhaps,” Geralt agreed, though he wasn’t quite certain. Peregrine hadn’t exactly been popular amongst the others vying for Pavetta’s hand._

Geralt sighed, shaking his head. There were still many questions unanswered, too many puzzles and uncertainties. He clenched his hands around Roach’s reins before looking to Jaskier, seeing the bard looked morose and somber, and sighed heavily once again.

“Fucks sake, Jaskier,” he muttered under his breath. “Fine. We’ll go to Oxenfurt and get your things. I’ll get Eskel and Lambert to join us and Yennefer can portal all of your belongings from your rooms in Oxenfurt to our room in Kaer Morhen.”

He watched as Jaskier’s face lit up, smile brighter than the sun igniting his features, and he sighed again, shaking his head. It was useless trying to resist Jaskier sometimes, Geralt hated seeing him miserable…and as long as Jaskier stayed by his side and followed the rules when they reached Oxenfurt, then nothing would happen. 

They met up with Lambert and Eskel outside of Oxenfurt a week later. Jaskier immediately began chattering happily to them as he led them through Oxenfurt’s gates, waving away the guards who tried to stop them. Eskel exchanged an impressed look with Geralt at that, who just rolled his eyes and shook his head, making sure to keep close to Jaskier as the bard led through the bustling town. 

“Remind me why I agreed to this,” Lambert grumbled as he glared at the townspeople whispering and pointing at them.

“Because you love me so, dear Lambert,” Jaskier told him with a grin. 

Lambert rolled his eyes hard at that. “Keep dreaming, Lark.”

Jaskier threw his head back as he laughed, light and carefree, the sound of which made Geralt smile slightly with fondness. 

It was a sound he had missed during Jaskier’s recovery, and during Jaskier’s quieter days when the memories of the abuse and torture he had suffered as Nilfgaard’s prisoner became too much for him.

It was a sound that was becoming more common, more freely given…and Geralt would make sure that Jaskier never lost that laugh again, even if it meant foolishly coming to Oxenfurt to make sure Jaskier didn’t lose his things and that he could reassure his students that he was okay. 

Eskel and Lambert kept an eye on the townspeople around them – the ones who didn’t try and hide as soon as they saw a trio of Witchers. 

“How much further, Jaskier?” Geralt asked, uneasy with the attention they were gaining, not wanting any potential Nilfgaardian spies or scouts heard about them and had time to call for reinforcements. 

“Almost there!” Jaskier said cheerfully, glancing to the side at Geralt, who rode beside him. Jaskier patted Buttercup’s neck as they approached the Oxenfurt Academy.  
Geralt blinked in surprise as they came across a bridge leading to a small island. 

“Fuck,” Lambert whistled from behind them. “Don’t think we’re going to have to worry about an ambush in there, Geralt.”

“Well, they could ambush us on the bridge,” Eskel pointed out, gaining a glare from Geralt, “but I doubt it,” Eskel finished with a meaningful look to Geralt. 

Jaskier led them onto the small island that housed the Academy, holding its large, regal school buildings and the small houses surrounding it, both dorms for the students and houses for the professors. 

“Professor Pankratz!” an excited voice called out as soon as they entered the large entry, heading into the Academy. 

“Pankratz?” Lambert guffawed quietly, gaining a dark look shot over Jaskier’s shoulder, which quelled the laughter quickly.

A young girl, in her late teens, came running up, grinning. “Professor Pankratz, you’re back!”

“Hello, Julia,” Jaskier greeted with a smile. “Back for a short visit, I’m afraid. I won’t be teaching this year.”

The girl’s face fell at that and she looked to the trio of Witchers surrounding him, understanding crossing her face.

“I-Is it because of Nilfgaard?” she asked quietly as she looked back up at Jaskier.

“How do you know about that?” Eskel asked her carefully as not to scare her. 

“Men keeping coming around and asking if we’ve heard if you’re coming back,” Julia told them, which made Jaskier shudder. “Then there are the Wanted posters, but we make sure they don’t stay up for long.”

“Brave kids,” Lambert muttered from behind them. 

“Well, yes, that’s a reason,” Jaskier admitted, glancing at Geralt, “but I also can’t leave my Witcher to travel without me! Think of all the stories I’d miss!”

Geralt rolled his eyes fondly at that and nodded. “Yes, all of the demands that I tell you _everything_ and somehow getting caught upside in some vines when you followed me when I went after a werewolf.”

“Good times,” Jaskier just grinned in response, not embarrassed at all. Julia giggled, looking to Jaskier. 

“Well, it just means you’ll have more to teach us then when you get back,” Julia told him as she absently patted Buttercup’s neck. 

Jaskier nodded in agreement. “Of course! With all new stories and songs to teach you all,” he promised. “Now, I’m sorry, but I do need to be going.”

“Monsters to hunt and all,” Geralt grunted from beside him.

“Very true!” Jaskier agreed with a smile. Julia nodded and stepped back. 

“It was good to see you, Professor,” Julia told him sincerely. “Please stay safe…though I know your Witchers won’t let you get hurt.”

Jaskier smiled at her once more before looking to Geralt, who looked surprised by the confidence that the young girl had in him and his brothers.

“No, they certainly will not,” Jaskier said softly, truthfully. “They will do all they can to make sure I’m safe…which is why they all followed me to Oxenfurt.”

Julia waved goodbye as Jaskier and his three Witchers headed towards the main building of the Academy. Jaskier slipped off of Buttercup’s back, leading her to her a nearby stable, where a stableboy rushed out to meet him.

“Professor!” the stableboy greeted. “Would you like me to stable your horses?”

“No, that’s okay,” Jaskier replied, glancing at Geralt. “We won’t be here for long, but I would appreciate you getting them some fresh water and oats.”

“Of course, Professor!” 

Jaskier smiled at the boy, slipping him a couple of coins before he turned to Geralt, Lambert and Eskel, who had all dismounted their horses and were standing behind him. 

“Your horses will be well taken of,” he promised them. “I wouldn’t put my dear Buttercup and my beautiful Roach somewhere I didn’t trust.”

That was all Geralt needed to hear. He trusted Jaskier on this, seeing as Jaskier knew this place well, trusted the people here within the Academy. Geralt stepped up to loop Roach’s reins around the pole outside of the stable, in front of the water trough, patting her neck soothingly. Roach headbutted him in return.

“Easy, Roach,” he murmured to her as Eskel and Lambert tied up their horses. “Look after Buttercup, huh?”

Roach snorted at him before turning her head away. Geralt looked back to Jaskier, who was watching him with a smile. His eyes crinkled at the corners when noticed Geralt looking at him.

“C’mon,” Jaskier told them with a smile. “I need to talk to the Chancellor of the Academy.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Lambert grumbled as he followed Jaskier as he turned on heel and strolled towards the Academy. “I don’t like being stared at.”

“They just can’t enough of your handsome face, Lambert,” Jaskier told him as he shot a grin over his shoulder at Lambert. “They’re used to the prim, arty, scholar types. You, Eskel and Geralt are forbidden fruit to them! Large, strong, handsome and rugged.”

Jaskier glanced back at the stunned silence from the Witchers, seeing all three of them looking unsure and disbelieving. Jaskier smiled sadly as he looked back to the large, sprawling, regal building in front of him. 

It saddened him to know that the Witchers didn’t see how amazing they were, how extremely handsome they all were, scars and all. People always saw them as terrifying, unnerved by their large statures, their golden eyes. They never took the time to get to know them, to see the emotions running within those expressive eyes – sometimes the only way one could tell what they were feeling as the Witchers were taught to keep their faces as expressionless as they could. They never got to know their kind, caring hearts, their sharp, witty, sometimes dark sense of humour.

It was the people’s loss of course. Jaskier counted himself lucky that he took that chance to approach Geralt in Posada. It had allowed him to see more of the Witcher, to see his true heart and not just the stories people told of him as they sneered or swore, calling him a heartless butcher. 

If only more people could see the true hearts of the Witchers, their true personalities, then the Witchers wouldn’t be so shocked when they learned how handsome and amazing they were, scars, gold eyes and all. 

Jaskier walked into the Academy, walking straight up to the grand staircase in the middle of the entry, knowing Geralt, Eskel and Lambert were right beside and behind him. 

“How’d you end up teaching here, Jaskier?” Eskel asked as he looked around the Academy in amazement. 

“I was sent here when I was young,” Jaskier explained, glancing back at them. “Sent here for schooling. My parents hoped it would settle me down, get me prepared for the future they wanted for me…but it was here I discovered my love for music, learnt how to play the lute and other instruments.”

Jaskier smiled thankfully at Geralt as Geralt gently rested his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder in quiet comfort and support. 

“So then I left home, played in courts and inns here and there,” Jaskier continued.

“Got bread thrown at you,” Geralt added with a small smile. Jaskier huffed at that, glaring at him.

“Food is food,” he said in the end, shrugging. “Then I met your bullheaded brother here, wrote my first well known song and became known as the Witcher’s Bard and after they heard I was asked to play in courts such as Cintra, I was asked to come back and teach the next generation.”

“All because you met our idiot brother,” Lambert grinned. 

“I’m sure he would have become known some other way,” Eskel said quickly, glaring at Lambert. Jaskier smiled thankfully at Eskel as they continued to weave their way through the many halls, glancing through open doors here and there to see a class being taught, a lecture being listened to. 

Jaskier finally paused in front of a wooden door with a golden plaque attached to it. He knocked curtly three times before stepping back, waiting for the door to be opened. It opened moments later, an elder man with combed back grey hair standing in the open door.

“Jaskier,” he greeted, surprised, as he held out his hand. Jaskier took it, firmly shaking it.

“Chancellor Devon,” Jaskier greeted in return. “My apologies for just showing up.”

“No, no, nonsense,” Devon waved away his apology. “I am just glad to see you. Please, come in.”

Jaskier walked in, followed by Geralt, Eskel and Lambert, who Devon eyed warily. 

“And, uh, this must be Geralt, the White Wolf, the Witcher we’ve heard so much about,” Devon said cordially as he went to sit behind his desk. Jaskier remained standing beside Geralt.

“Yes,” Jaskier inclined his head. “Geralt of Rivia, meet Chancellor Devon. These are Geralt’s brothers, Eskel and Lambert,” Jaskier introduced as he indicated to each of them in turn. Devon nodded to each of them in turn before he frowned worriedly, looking back to Jaskier. 

“Are you in danger, Jaskier?” Devon asked him seriously. “We’ve all seen the Wanted posters that Nilfgaard have posted, though I know your students and fellow professors have been vigilant in taking them down as soon as they appear.” 

“I’m being hunted by Nilfgaard,” Jaskier confirmed, glancing to Geralt, who stiffened slightly at the reminder. 

“I wouldn’t stay here too long then,” Devon said gravely. “Talk is that Nilfgaard is slowly burning their way through the South of Temeria, heading towards Vizima. I don’t want to hear you’ve been captured by them.”

Jaskier shuddered at that thought, fear gripping his stomach at the thought of Cahir, Fringilla and the rest of the army so close to him. 

“Yeah, definitely won’t be here for long,” Jaskier agreed, swallowing harshly as he glanced to Geralt. “I-I can’t be their prisoner again.”

“Again?” Devon asked faintly, eyes widening in alarm. Jaskier flinched, shuffling slightly as he tried to think of how to answer that question. He glanced up at Geralt again as he felt his solid bulk move closer, pressing against Jaskier’s side to reassure him that he was there.

“I was captured by them last year,” Jaskier explained quietly, averting his eyes to the large oak desk. “Was their prisoner for about two-three weeks before Geralt rescued me.”

“Were you hurt?” Devon asked worriedly as he stood up, eyes darting over Jaskier as though searching for any hidden wounds.

Jaskier smiled weakly. “I’m fine now, really.”

Devon didn’t look convinced but didn’t push Jaskier any further, sitting back down once again. “Why come back here, Julian?” he asked him seriously. “I’m sure you’d be aware that they’d come looking for you here.”

“Eskel brought me your letter,” Jaskier explained simply. “I wanted to get my things, explain to you why I won’t be back for a while…not for as long as Nilfgaard has a bounty on my head.”

“I completely understand that,” Devon nodded. “I didn’t want to give your room away, but we do have rules…as the advisors and board took great care in reminding me recently. A professor must teach even just a small course once every year, and since you didn’t teach last year or this year, it’s out of my power, Jaskier. The only reason rooms are extended when one isn’t teaching is due to health or other reasons which have to be approved at the board’s discretion.”

“Being hunted by Nilfgaard not reason enough?” Lambert asked coolly as he stared unblinkingly at Devon. Devon shifted under the unerring stare.

“If Professor Pankratz had contacted us earlier, than perhaps something could have been worked out, but it’s too late now,” Devon explained, voice surprisingly even despite the nerves and fear that Geralt, Eskel and Lambert could smell emanating from him.

Jaskier shook his head. “I get it. Just promise not to give my rooms to Marx.”

Devon laughed at that, nodding in agreement “Of course, of course. I wouldn’t dream of it. He’s quite a horrible teacher anyway. I don’t believe he’s been invited back to teach, only to give guest lectures.”

Jaskier laughed at that as Geralt frowned, recalling that name, trying to remember when he first heard it. The memory hit him quickly, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips when he remembered the first time he had heard of Valdo Marx was when Jaskier was wishing death upon him by the Djinn. 

“I’ll get you access to your room,” Devon said suddenly, breaking Geralt from his memory. “I don’t think you’ll want to stick around for too long.”

Jaskier glanced back at Geralt before answering, “No, it’s already risky enough coming here. I’m just going to get my belongings and then I’ll be leaving.”

Devon sighed as he nodded, getting to his feet. “It is disappointing that you won’t be gracing us with your presence this year. The students will miss you greatly, but I’d prefer you to be safe, young Julian. I’m glad your Witcher friends are taking your safety seriously at least.”

Jaskier smiled at them, blue eyes filled with fondness as he looked over the three Witchers. “Yes, I’m very lucky to count them as my friends.”

Eskel and Lambert shuffled awkwardly at the warm, genuine smile that Jaskier aimed at them, unsure of how to react to his words. They had never really had actual friends outside of other Witchers. Being a Witcher wasn’t a very friendly career. 

Geralt just gave a small smile back, watching as Jaskier was given the key to his rooms. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier told the Chancellor as he took the key. “I won’t be too long.”

“Take as long as you need,” Devon reassured him. “Leave your key in the room, I’ll send someone to clean it later on. I do look forward to seeing you gracing our halls again soon, Jaskier…and you as well, Witchers, there are courses and lectures that you would be most welcome to attend if you want to extend your knowledge…or even impart some of your vast knowledge upon young, hungry minds!”

“Thank you for your offer,” Geralt said gracefully, inclining his head as Eskel and Lambert stared in surprise. “We may take you up upon that offer…once Jaskier is safe.”

“Of course, of course,” Devon agreed readily. “Take care…all of you.”

Jaskier nodded, giving him a curt handshake before he swept from the room with his Witchers trailing behind him. Jaskier led them out of the main Academy and towards the professor’s rooms, ignoring the whispers and looks they all received from awed and shocked students and professors when they spotted the three Witchers surrounding Jaskier protectively. 

“Just up here,” Jaskier told them as he led them up a flight of stairs, turning towards a wooden door, the third on the right at the end of the corridor. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping into his rooms. 

It was one large room, a large four-poster bed pushed against one sleek wooden wall, gauzy, white curtains hanging around the dark wooden posts. A desk, covered in papers, both blank and scrawled upon, empty inkpots and broken quills, was pressed under the window. Large bookshelves covered the walls, covered with books, instruments and other knick-knacks that Jaskier had collected over the year. 

Two large wardrobes were on the opposite side of the room, next to a vanity covered in different vials. 

“Fuck, Jaskier, you have a lot of stuff,” Lambert whistled as he looked around. Jaskier shrugged as he walked over to the bed, opening up a large chest sitting at the end of the bed. 

“It’s where I store most of my stuff,” Jaskier explained as he walked over to the wardrobes, opening the doors to reveal that it was stuffed full of clothes. “I can’t exactly take all of this with me when I follow Geralt around.”

“Yeah, I can’t see Roach carrying all of this,” Eskel grinned as he started to take the books off the shelves, stacking them neatly for easier carry. Jaskier dumped his clothes into the empty chest before going back for more. 

Geralt headed over to the vanity, carefully packing Jaskier’s collections of oils and scents into a leather satchel hanging off of the mirror.

“Roach would dump it off of her,” Geralt chuckled as he helped to pack Jaskier’s belongings. “She doesn’t take unnecessary weight.” 

They worked efficiently to get all of Jaskier’s stuff packed into the chest or piled up neatly on the bed. 

“Is that all?” Geralt asked, turning to Jaskier, who looked over everything with a critical eye before nodding.

“That’s all of it,” he agreed, looking back to Geralt, who pulled out a xenovox from his pocket. 

“Yennefer,” he spoke into it. “We’re ready when you are.”

They all looked up as a portal suddenly opened in the room, an annoyed looking Yennefer stepping out of it.

“I don’t see why I agreed to this,” she grumbled. “I don’t move items.”

“Because you love me, Yen,” Jaskier grinned, making Yennefer roll her eyes and wave her arm towards the portal.

“Make this quick,” she warned them. “I don’t need any mages sensing I’m here.”

Lambert and Eskel quickly gathered up armfuls of Jaskier’s belongings, quickly carrying them through the portal and dumping the items carefully on Geralt’s bed. 

“Ciri!” Lambert growled as the young teenager followed them back through the portal, quickly throwing herself into a tight hug in Jaskier’s arms as soon as she spotted him. “You’re not meant to come through!”

“I just wanted to see Jaskier and Geralt!” Ciri complained as she hugged the bard as tightly as she could. “It’s just gonna be for a moment!”

Jaskier chuckled quietly as he hugged her back just as tightly. 

“Don’t be too long,” he murmured in her ear. “It’s not safe here.”

Ciri nodded, burying her head into his shoulder for a moment longer before she let him go to hug Geralt. Jaskier watched her, smiling fondly.

She had grown so much. Not only in height, in which she had sprouted like a weed as she hit her teenage years, but also in confidence. Being trained as a Witcher, and being trained to control her powers, had certainly made her more confident, no longer being coddled and protected like the princess she once was.

She was now figuring out her own way in this world and she was doing so wonderfully. 

Jaskier smiled at her once more before he went to the bed, picking up his instruments and carefully carrying them through the portal and into his and Geralt’s room at Kaer Morhen, carefully placing them on the bed. They’d be safe there for now.

Jaskier walked back through, smiling as he saw Ciri was still clinging onto Geralt as Geralt murmured to her, amber eyes fond as he spoke to her.

“Come on, Ciri,” Eskel said as he appeared through the portal again, having carried through the chest heavy with all of Jaskier’s clothing. “We’re done here.”

Ciri sighed as she let go of Geralt, waving to Jaskier as she walked back to Yennefer’s side, taking her hand. Yennefer smiled softly at her before looking back to Jaskier and Geralt.

“Be careful, the both of you,” she warned. “Geralt, do you still have that vial I gave you?” 

Geralt nodded curtly, seeing Jaskier’s curious gaze in his peripheral. 

“Good. Use it if you have need of me,” Yennefer continued. “Puppy, do be careful and don’t get yourself in any mischief.”

“I’ll try,” Jaskier grinned easily. Yennefer rolled her eyes before she and Ciri turned and stepped back through the portal, with Ciri glancing over her shoulder at them as they did so, staring at them until the last possible moment when the portal closed behind them.

Jaskier sighed, looking around his now empty rooms, before picking up the bag he had packed with some of the items he could use on their travels now.

“Come on,” Jaskier murmured, trying not to think of how long it may be before he was back in Oxenfurt again. “Let’s get out of here.”

Soon, they were all on their horses, leaving Oxenfurt, back on the beaten path again. 

“Okay, I’ve got to ask,” Lambert spoke up from the back of his own horse. “But _Pankratz_? What kind of name is that?”

“Sounds important,” Eskel added on, glancing at Jaskier, who huffed. 

“My birth name is Julian Alfred Pankratz,” he said shortly, not very fond of speaking of his past. “My family is, well, one of importance in Lettenhove. I was meant to have the title of Viscount, but I ran away from home and got disowned by my parents – who hated the fact that I fell in love in music and the lute while I studied at Oxenfurt, where they had sent me in order to learn to prepare me to be a Viscount…but it wasn’t the path for me.”

“Nah,” Lambert agreed with a lazy smile. “You make a much better bard than you would a Viscount.”

“That has to be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Lambert,” Jaskier laughed as he looked at Lambert with a grin. 

“Jaskier suits you much better too,” Eskel mused. “You don’t seem like a Julian.”

“Suits him much better,” Geralt agreed, smiling at Jaskier. “Huh, Buttercup?”

“Are you talking to me or the horse?” Jaskier teased with a light laugh as they continued to ride on.

Eventually they reached a crossroad where they would part ways.

“Be safe, you two,” Eskel told them sincerely as he looked between them. “Keep out of trouble.”

“Keep to the shadows,” Lambert added on. “Don’t make me rescue your asses.”

“You as well,” Geralt returned with a raised eyebrow as he looked to Lambert. “We will see you soon.”

Jaskier nodded in agreement, smiling sadly as he looked to them. “Stay safe the both of you…we’ll stay safe too,” he promised. “I’ll even keep out of mischief.”

“Hmm, wonder how long that will last,” Geralt teased with a smirk, gaining a playful, shocked look from Jaskier. 

“We mean it,” Eskel added, looking to Jaskier intently. “We don’t want anything to happen to you, Lark.”

Jaskier nodded, blue eyes serious. “I know, Eskel. I’ll keep away from Nilfgaard and all the places they’re rumoured to be.”

Content with that promise, Eskel and Lambert rode off, leaving Geralt and Jaskier to watch them leave. 

Jaskier couldn’t help but feel a heavy feeling settle in his stomach, as though this would be the last time he saw them for a long time. 

“It’ll be okay,” Geralt’s voice said soothingly beside him. Geralt reached out from Roach’s back to gently grab Jaskier’s hand. “It’s going to be okay, Jaskier.”

Jaskier smiled at him weakly, keeping silent about the feeling he had, and nodded.

“Of course…of course it will be,” he said, trying to remain positive. He fixed a smile on his face and straightened up. “So, where to now, my dearest Geralt?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there's the first one!  
> Let me know what you think!


	2. Found

Jaskier shivered as he peered out of the mouth of the cave, staring into the pouring rain slating across the trees in front of him, so heavy Jaskier could barely see ten feet out of the cave. With another shiver, Jaskier headed back into the spacious cave, settling down by the fire on his bedroll. He glanced back at the mouth of the cave again, frowning, as he looked past Roach and Buttercup, who were both tied within the cave, keeping them safe and dry, as they nibbled on the moss and roots growing upon the stone wall. 

Geralt had bravely, and somewhat foolishly, ventured out into the rain to find them some actual food, not content to keep eating jerky and somewhat stale bread, or subject Jaskier to keep eating it. They were in between towns, and they’d gotten run out of the last one because it had been a town prejudiced against Witchers. So they’d been travelling through the drizzling rain before it got too heavy for travel and Geralt had led them to this cave he had found in his previous travels to shelter for the rest of the day and the evening. 

Jaskier had told Geralt that it was okay, that he was fine with jerky and bread, but Geralt refused to hear of it, muttering something about Jaskier beginning to become too skinny and needing a decent meal. 

Sighing, Jaskier looked back to the cave entrance, barely able to see out of it with the dark, thick storm clouds blocking the sun and darkening the day. He leapt up when he heard a twig break outside of the cave, pulling the dagger that Geralt had given him out of the sheathe in his boot. 

“Reflexes are getting quicker,” came Geralt’s gruff voice as he ducked into the cave, dripping wet with a deer carcass draped over his shoulder. Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief as he tucked the dagger back away.

“Geralt!” he breathed, shaking his head. “You scared me…and you’re soaked to the bone!” 

Geralt dropped the carcass onto the cave floor, lifting his head to smile at Jaskier, even as his hair hung limp around his head, wet strands plastered to his face and dripping around his shoulder.

“Get changed and get dried off,” Jaskier ordered him as he grabbed Geralt’s hand and pulled the drenched Witcher closer to the warm fire. “The food can wait for now.”

Geralt shook his head fondly as he allowed Jaskier to drag him closer to the fire and fuss over him, despite knowing that he would be fine being cold and wet for a while as his immune system was much stronger than a regular human. 

He did strip off his wet clothes as Jaskier rummaged through their bags, pulling out some dry clothes for Geralt to wear. He placed them on a rock near enough to the fire so they’d dry out before grabbing the clothes that Jaskier had gotten out of the bag for him. He gently swatted Jaskier’s fretting hands away as Jaskier attempted to pat him dry. 

“I’m fine, Jask,” he assured him. “Just let me get dressed so I can get the meat ready to cook.”

“Fine, fine,” Jaskier muttered as he stepped back, watching as Geralt got dressed into warm, dry clothes. He wrapped his arms around his self as he watched Geralt get changed. “Just…just wanted to make sure you’re okay. I-I mean, you’ve been looking out for me and making sure I’ve been okay since you rescued me…you even went in the rain to find actual meat!” 

Geralt had paused in his dressing at Jaskier’s quiet, rambling words and was watching him with his head cocked slightly to the side. Once Jaskier had finished, he exhaled softly and stepped forward to pull Jaskier against his chest, feeling Jaskier’s fingers clutching at his bare shoulders, almost desperately as he clung back. He could feel Jaskier trembling against him and he wrapped his arms more securely around the bard, holding him closer, just to reassure him he was there.

“What’s wrong, Jask?” Geralt murmured as he rubbed soothingly circles on the small of Jaskier’s back. 

“Don’t know…” Jaskier whispered against his neck. “Just, you’ve been here for me a-and you even changed your usual Path to make sure I’m safe…and…you mean the _world_ to me, Geralt. I-I just…I just want to be able to return the favour.”

“Ah, Jaskier,” Geralt sighed as he lifted a hand to card his fingers through Jaskier’s soft locks, knowing it soothed him. “You mean the world to me too,” he said softly. “That’s why I want to make sure you’re okay. It helps me knowing that you’re okay, that you’re looked after. You don’t owe me anything, Jask, you don’t need to return the favour. I…I’ve never really said this, or really had anyone to say it to, but it comforts me, makes me feel better to look after you, like you looked after me for so many decades, even despite me treating you like shit.”

Jaskier gave a watery laugh, hands shifting so he could tangle his fingers in Geralt’s damp hair at the base of his neck. “I knew you cared, gut punches, insults and all,” Jaskier told him, smiling weakly against Geralt’s shoulder. “Sorry…just, well, looking after you makes me feel _normal_ again.”

Geralt nodded in understanding. “So we look after each other, like we always do. It’ll be all right, Jaskier. It’s going to be fine.”

“Sorry,” Jaskier warbled shakily. “Don’t know why I suddenly felt like that.”

“Just one of those days,” Geralt murmured as he continued to run his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier had his up and down days. There were days where he was just like his old safe, all cheery and bubbly and annoying…and then there were days where he was quiet and uncertain, needing reassurance or to be next to Geralt all the time, to be touched and held. 

“Come on,” Geralt murmured as he gently coaxed Jaskier’s face out his neck. “You can help me get the meat prepared and cooked.”

Jaskier let out a breath at that, smiling shakily as he looked to Geralt, giving a nod. He took a step back out of Geralt’s embrace, but moved his hand to intertwine his fingers with Geralt’s, feeling reassured and comforted as Geralt squeezed back in return. 

Jaskier followed Geralt as Geralt headed over to the carcass, still clinging onto his hand. Eventually he did let go as he settled down to sit beside Geralt, since Geralt did need both hands to prepare the carcass and section it down. 

Geralt spoke to Jaskier, voice low and soothing as he talked Jaskier through what he was doing, just so there wasn’t silence. Jaskier leaned against Geralt’s side as he watched him work, before looking to Geralt, watching his face instead. 

The Witcher’s face was intense as he focused on his work, amber eyes almost staring unblinkingly on his work. Still, Geralt glanced at him every now and again, offering a small smile when he saw the Jaskier was staring at him.

Jaskier continued to listen to Geralt’s voice as he sectioned the meat, staring at his face. 

He couldn’t imagine his life without Geralt now. Geralt was his best friend, his most trusted and beloved. He was always there for him, and he had truly and sure made up for what had happened on the mountain. Geralt now was more open to talking, more willing to show his affection. Jaskier had felt more loved, more protected in this last year then he had ever felt before – though Geralt had definitely made him feel the safest in the last few decades, but now this was something different.

He felt _loved_ …and he loved that big, gruff, scarred Witcher with the big heart just as much in return.

Jaskier shifted to rest his head upon Geralt’s shoulder, sighing softly. He knew, that no matter what, that Geralt would be there for him, would fight for him, and would come for him no matter what. 

“Do you want to get the spices?” Geralt asked him once had finished sectioning the meat. Jaskier nodded, finger tips drifting across Geralt’s arm before he stood up and went to their bags.

Soon enough, the meat was roasting over the fire, smelling divine with the spices rubbed upon it. 

Jaskier had settled down to sit beside Geralt as it cooked, hugging one of Geralt’s arms to his chest as Geralt absently traced patterns on Jaskier’s leg with his free hand, both of them content to just sit there curled with one another as they watched their dinner cook, the rain still pouring heavily outside of their cave. 

Once they had eaten and Geralt had checked on the horses, they lay down upon their bedrolls, which were pressed side by side next to the flickering fire. Jaskier shuffled closer to Geralt, who immediately shifted and opened his arm to allow Jaskier to curl closer, resting his head upon Geralt’s chest. Geralt wrapped his arm around the lean bard, feeling himself relax, knowing that Jaskier was okay and in his arms. 

He closed his eyes as he felt Jaskier relax against him, listening to Jaskier’s heart beat thumping steadily, combined with the patter of rain outside of the cave. Jaskier’s warmth seeped through his clothes, into his skin, warming him up better than the fire ever could. 

Jaskier hummed quietly in his ear, relaxed, and Geralt opened his eyes to look at the humming bard.

“Feeling better?” he asked him quietly. Jaskier glanced up at him and gave a sleepy smile, wrapping his arm around Geralt’s middle, hugging him close. 

“Always better when I’m with you,” Jaskier yawned sleepily as he nuzzled against Geralt’s chest. The words startled Geralt for a moment, though he knew that it shouldn’t, not now. Warmth flooded him at the words, knowing just how much Jaskier trusted him…and it made Geralt blink as he realised how much he had come to trust Jaskier in return.  
Never before would he allow anyone, that wasn’t a Witcher, to sleep with him like this. Even when he visited a brothel, his paid company usually stayed as far away as they could after the deed was done…not wanting to cuddle with a Witcher.

Jaskier wasn’t like that though. He was tactile, loving hugs and touches and being held and holding Geralt in return. Geralt found that he slept easier with Jaskier by his side, comforted by his heart beat and warmth. 

He could still remember the first time he woke up after they had shared a bed to find Jaskier wrapped around him, limbs wrapped around him and face nuzzled into Geralt’s neck. Geralt had remained frozen, held in Jaskier’s embrace, unsure of how to react…especially since something about it was so soothing.

He’d never been held like that before.

Now it was something he was used to with Jaskier, waking up to find the bard curled around him like some sort of octopus. 

“Go to sleep, Bard,” Geralt rumbled at him instead, getting a tired chuckle from Jaskier in response.

“All right, my White Wolf,” yawned Jaskier again as he snuggled closer. Geralt listened to Jaskier’s breaths as they evened out, before he closed his own eyes again, giving a soft sigh. 

Soon enough he drifted off to sleep, his trust in Jaskier allowing him to slip into a deep, unbroken sleep. 

They began to travel mid-day the next day, once the rain let up. The dirt roads were all muddy, making their travel even slower as both Roach and Buttercup struggled to walk in the mud, sinking with each step. 

It was just past midday when it became too hard to travel with the drizzling rain and the cold wind that was blowing straight through them. Geralt glanced around, scowling as he tried to find somewhere relatively dry they could rest.

“In here,” he called to Jaskier over the howling wind, pointing to a thicket of trees up ahead. Shivering, Jaskier nodded, hunching lower over Buttercup’s back to protect himself from the cold wind biting at his wet clothes, and followed Geralt into the trees. They trotted carefully deeper into the forest, the horses both careful as they stepped over logs and large rocks.

Eventually they managed to reach a thicker part of the forest, where the wind was unable to penetrate as harshly as did out on the road thanks to the thick trunks and grouping of the trees. 

Geralt paused Roach for a moment, head tilting as he listened intently before he clicked his tongue and pulled Roach to the right.

“W-Where are we going?” Jaskier asked, teeth chattering from the cold.

“Rain’s not so loud over here,” Geralt called back as he navigated Roach through the trees. They finally came across a small clearing that was a bit drier compared to the rest of the forest as the trees, that towered far above them, created a dense foliage as all of their branches reached out and tangled together far above them, shielding them from most of the rain fall. 

“We can set up here for the night,” Geralt sighed as he neatly leapt off of Roach’s back. “Try and head towards a town tomorrow.”

Jaskier nodded as he slipped off of Buttercup’s back, teeth still chattering. “S-Sounds good.”

“I’d hoped we would have reached a town today,” Geralt continued, glancing at the shivering Jaskier with brows furrowed in concern, before he bent down, examining twigs and fallen branches, picking up the ones he deemed dry enough. “It would have been good. Roof over our head, warm food…though it might have been shitty stew as always, and a hot bath.”

“Oh, don’t tease, Geralt,” Jaskier moaned, smiling weakly at him. “I don’t care if we have to share the bath when we get to the inn, but I refuse to wait…or let you wait for it either. We both deserve to soak in hot, magnificent water until we’re all pruney.” 

“Sounds good,” Geralt replied as he managed to get a fire burning with a small burst of Igni on the relatively dry branches he had found. “Might be a tight squeeze though.”

“Don’t care,” Jaskier said as he dropped to his knees beside the fire, giving a small moan at the warmth. “It’ll be warm and it’ll be a bath…and you’ll be there, so I don’t exactly lose there, do I?”

Geralt smiled at him at that. “No, definitely no loss in that,” he said softly. “Come now, out of those wet clothes before you get ill. Don’t need you sniffling and moaning when you get a cold.”

Jaskier poked his tongue out at him in response before he got to his feet, heading back over to Buttercup, who had found a patch of grass to nibble at, and pulled his bags off of her back, petting her neck as he walked back towards the fire. Geralt moved to Roach to get some of the packs off of her back, heading back towards the fire.

He set up the bedrolls, laying out a tarp on the damp ground before he placed the bed rolls upon it, making sure they were close to the fire, as Jaskier stripped on the other side of the fire, quickly drying himself off and getting dressed into drier clothes. 

“Urgh, so glad I paid to get my bags waterproofed,” Jaskier muttered as he sunk down by the fire again. Geralt hummed in agreement as he finished setting up the rest of the camp, sighing when he finally heard Jaskier’s teeth cease chattering. 

Once he had finished setting up, he worked on getting out of his own wet clothes. 

“Give them here,” Jaskier told him once he had stripped on his own clothes. Geralt cocked an eyebrow but handed his wet clothes to Jaskier all the same, watching as the bard laid them out by the fire so they’d dry off. Geralt quickly changed into a drier set of clothes before he settled down to sit on one of the bedrolls. Jaskier joined him once had had grabbed his lute and the bag with the jerky and bread in it. 

“Despite the rain…and the cold…this isn’t so bad,” Jaskier said absently as he burrowed through the bag containing the food, grinning as he pulled out some jerky. He offered some to Geralt, who took it, chewing on a piece thoughtfully as he looked to Jaskier.

“Not so bad?” he questioned, glancing at Roach, who still had the pack on containing his potions and the pack containing the leftover meat from yesterday, all wrapped up safe for tonight’s meal. 

“This,” Jaskier said, gesturing to the warm blazing fire, his lute, and then to the two of them. “Just us. No expectations, no angry villagers glaring at us or throwing things at us. We can just relax and just be together, I guess. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Geralt hummed in agreement as he looked around their small little campsite. Yes, beside it being a little damp and cold, it wasn’t too bad.

Here he didn’t have to be on guard, waiting for villagers to strike and attack him or having to protect Jaskier from vengeful partners or angry crowds who didn’t appreciate him singing about Witchers…or just didn’t like his singing, which Geralt couldn’t fathom. He may have complained to Jaskier before, insulted him, saying that his singing that was like a filling less pie…but it wasn’t true. He had heard some truly horrible bards within his travels, those who were tone-deaf and just warbled. Jaskier wasn’t like that...and he’d ruined music for Geralt, really. No longer could he listen to a bard without caring, now when he heard them he judged the way they sang, comparing it to Jaskier. He’d become a lot more sensitive to other’s singing voices now too, because of Jaskier, many others sounding like a dying kikimore compared to his bard…not that he’d ever tell him that. Jaskier was confident enough about his singing, he didn’t need Geralt to boost his singing ego even further. 

“Mm,” Geralt hummed finally, looking back to Jaskier, who was absently chewing on his own piece of jerky. “You’re right. It’s not bad.” 

Jaskier smiled at him warmly, blue eyes lighting up, which made Geralt smile in return, wrapping an arm around the bard’s shoulders and pulling him close. Jaskier wrapped an arm around Geralt’s waist in return as he leaned against his broad side, snuggling in close to his warmth. 

Once they had both eaten and gotten suitably warm again, Geralt stood up to go tend to the horses while Jaskier pulled out his lute, strumming a soft tune that he hummed along too, though Geralt occasionally caught softly sung words here and there. 

Geralt looped both Buttercup’s and Roach’s reins over nearby branches, though keeping them apart so they could have their own area to graze at. 

“I was thinking we’d go with the rosemary spices for the meat tonight,” Jaskier spoke up suddenly. “Vesemir taught me a couple of things about cooking when we were at Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt nodded as he brushed Roach down. “Sounds good. I look forward to seeing what you can actually cook,” he teased. 

“Rude,” Jaskier pouted, though a hint of a smile soon pulled at the corner of his lips. “I’m a very good cook, thank you very much. I’ve cooked for us so often!”

“Mmm, that’s true,” Geralt conceded. When they camped out, while Geralt usually got the camp set up – since he had particular way he liked it – Jaskier got the fire and food prepared for them both. Sometimes Geralt cooked it as well as Jaskier serenaded them both, but Jaskier had usually gotten it prepared for him to cook. 

Geralt froze suddenly, which had Jaskier placing his lute aside, worry flooding his face.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said worriedly. “Geralt, what is it?”

Geralt tilted his head, listening intently. He was so certain he heard a twig snap, even amongst the sound of the rain. It was hard to differentiate the sounds though, too many noises muddled together from the wind and the rain. 

He grunted in pain as an arrow suddenly buried itself into his shoulder, flying out from the shadows between the trees.

“Geralt!” Jaskier cried out.

“Stay back!” Geralt ordered him as he grabbed his sword from the sheathe hanging from Roach’s saddle. He stepped back to stand in front of Jaskier, amber eyes darting around, pupils dilating so he could see more in the dark. 

“We’re surrounded,” Geralt growled out, glancing about, counting at least ten assailants in the tree line, slowly making their way closer. He grinned at that. Only ten. It would be a hard fight, but he’d had fought against worse odds before. 

He listened to Jaskier whimper quietly behind him as soldiers in Nilfgaardian armour stepped out into the clearing, thrown into the light emitted by their fire. Geralt gritted his teeth, catching scent of Jaskier’s fear, and his grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. 

Geralt stiffened slightly as his vision wavered suddenly, making him blink hard, trying to clear his vision. Geralt lifted his sword, ignoring the pain in his shoulder from the arrow sticking out of his shoulder, which had dug in a decent amount since he hadn’t been wearing his armour. 

One of the soldiers grinned, seeing Geralt sway slightly on his feet, blinking rapidly. 

“Looks like our tip was right, boys,” the leader laughed. “That potion is weakening him.”

“Geralt?!” Jaskier asked worriedly, head snapping up to look at Geralt.

“M’fine, Jaskier,” Geralt growled, keeping his gaze on the soldiers. “Stay behind me.”

Geralt rounded the fire as the soldiers stepped closer, ignoring how his vision wavered and swam and the sweat beginning to bead at his hairline. 

He only made it a few steps before he collapsed to his knees, his vision swimming, heart pounding in his ears, breathing ragged. Whatever they had given him was strong, affecting him quickly and strongly. 

Geralt grunted as he kicked across the face, sending him to the ground, sword flying from his lax hand, barely hearing Jaskier cry out his name in panic. 

“You lose this one, Witcher,” a soldier sneered. “Looks like you aren’t so invincible after all!”

Jaskier stared at Geralt laying on the ground, groaning, in panic. He looked up as the Nilfgaard soldiers laughed, his blue eyes darkening and jaw setting as he got to his feet, grabbing Geralt’s steel sword, which had landed close to him. The Nilfgaardian soldiers all looked at him as Jaskier finally got to his feet, sword held in both hands as he glared at them.

“Get away from him,” Jaskier snarled, stepping forward until he was standing beside Geralt, protecting him.

“Jask…run…” Geralt panted weakly, amber eyes barely able to focus on him. Jaskier shook his head, jaw setting with determination as he eyed off the soldiers laughing at him.

“I’m not leaving you, Geralt!” 

“Give it up, Bard,” the dark haired leader sneered. “You won’t win against us.”

“I’m not giving up so easily,” Jaskier shot back, “and I won’t let you hurt Geralt!” 

The leader rolled his eyes, waving his hand dismissively. “Get him men, and remember he has to be in one piece.”

Jaskier shifted from foot to foot, getting himself ready. The soldiers had already underestimated him, but it was time to show them that he wasn’t some weak, useless noble-raised bard. No. He’d been given training by some of the best.

With a feral grin, Jaskier charged the approaching soldiers, refusing to back down. 

The soldiers had underestimated him with two quickly falling to the sword Jaskier was wielding, looks of shock upon their faces as they fell for the last time. With resounding snarls, the other soldiers regrouped, coming back more prepared. 

Jaskier was already tiring as he ducked and weaved, blocking and slashing with Geralt’s sword – which was really quite weighty – and he knew he wouldn’t last for much longer…but he just had to keep Geralt safe. They just had to survive this!

The leader managed to get in a hit though as Jaskier faltered. Jaskier cried out in pain as the Nilfgaardian blade cut a gash upon Jaskier’s thigh, making him stumble back. The leader bared his teeth in a feral smile as he slammed his blade against Jaskier’s, knocking it from Jaskier’s weakened grasp and sending the wounded Jaskier stumbling back from the force of the blow. 

Jaskier gasped weakly, wincing as pain seared through red-hot through the cut on his thigh, grasping back at the tree behind him. He panted, looking to Geralt, who was struggling on the ground, not having the strength to get up, before his eyes darted to the discarded sword by Geralt’s side…and near the Nilfgaardian soldiers, so the sword was out of the question. They'd grab him before he was anywhere near the sword. 

“Get the horses,” the Nilfgaardian leader commanded. “They’ll be useful.”

Jaskier glanced at Roach and Buttercup, still panting as he leaned against the tree, unable to take weight on his wounded leg. He bit his lip for a moment, eyeing off the packs still on Roach’s back. 

He knew he wasn’t going to be able to run away, not wounded like this…and there was no way he was leaving Geralt behind…but if Roach got away and Jaskier managed to get them to leave Geralt behind when they took him, then at least Geralt would have access to her and the potions still strapped to her back. 

Leaning down and biting back a hiss of pain, Jaskier pulled his dagger from his boot, quickly hobbling towards Roach, ignoring the pain that flared through his leg and weakened his leg, his knee threatening to buckle from the pain.

“Get him!” 

It was too late though, as Jaskier quickly sliced through Roach’s reins, slapping her hindquarters. “Hyah! Run, Roach!” 

Roach whinnied before taking off into the woods. Jaskier knew she wouldn’t go far. She was too smart and too loyal to run off too far. She would come when she heard Geralt’s whistle. 

Jaskier grunted as he was grabbed and shoved down to his knees, the dagger wrestled from his hand and thrown aside. He winced as his hands were forced behind his back and roughly tied with rope.

“That was stupid,” the dark haired Nilfgaard leader spat. “You didn’t even try to get away.”

Jaskier grinned weakly at him, head rolling back slightly so he could meet his gaze. “Running away wasn’t my intention,” he laughed weakly. “I knew I wasn’t going to get away, but I wasn’t going to let you get Roach either.”

The soldier looked at him in disgust, shaking his head. 

“Get the other horse,” he ordered one of the others, before he looked back to Geralt, who was still struggling to get up, seeming even more weakened than before. “And what to do with you…”

“Leave him alone!” Jaskier snarled, lunging forward, though he was quickly caught by tight grips on his shoulders. The leader looked at him, eyebrow raised and Jaskier faltered, sitting back on his heels, wincing at the pain in his thigh. “I-I’ll go with you peacefully, j-just leave him alone.”

“Mmm, well, he does still have some use left to him,” the leader sneered, pulling out a piece of parchment from his pocket, marching over to one of the packs. He picked up Jaskier’s dagger, using it to stab the top of the letter into the pack. He crouched down beside Geralt, grabbing a fistful of Geralt’s hair and forcing the drugged Witcher to look at him.

“Follow the instructions on the letter, Witcher,” the leader snarled at him. “Or you don’t want to know what will happen to your precious bard if you fail to comply.”

Geralt hissed weakly, trying to push himself up, but a quick punch to the face quickly forced his head to slam back against the ground. Jaskier snarled and fought against the grips on his shoulders at that. 

Jaskier glared at the leader, who was still crouched beside Geralt. He tilted his head suddenly, reaching out. 

“Stop!” Jaskier yelled out when he realised what the soldier had grabbed. He had Geralt’s Wolf medallion held firmly in hand. The leader smirked at Jaskier before he wrenched up and back, yanking the medallion up and over Geralt’s head, yanking out the strands of hair that had gotten tangled in the chain. Jaskier bared his teeth at him, glaring, as the leader looked down at the medallion in his hand.

“Find anything interesting here and bring it,” the leader ordered, pocketing Geralt's medallion as a trophy. “Don’t worry about the bard, he can’t go anywhere with his wounded leg…and he knows if he tries anything stupid that we’ll hurt his Witcher.”

Jaskier slumped back in defeat. He sat there for a moment, watching as the Nilfgaardian soldiers untangled Buttercup’s reins, leading her away, while others poked around their belongings. 

His gaze fell upon Geralt again and, with a furtive glance at the Nilfgaardian leader, he carefully shuffled to Geralt’s side. Even with his hands bound behind his back, Jaskier leaned forward, resting his forehead against Geralt’s chest.

“I’m sorry, Geralt, I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“ _Jask_ ,” Geralt breathed weakly. “ _Run…please…can’t lose you…_ ”

Jaskier shook his head against Geralt’s chest. “I can’t, Geralt…and, please, know it’s not your fault. You did your best a-and it’s going to be all right. J-Just protect our girl, Geralt. Protect her.”

“ _Jaskier…_ ”

Jaskier was suddenly pulled back from Geralt and forced to his feet. Geralt writhed on the ground, trying so desperately to summon some sort of strength to get up, but failing, his eyes drifting close and snapping open, so close to losing consciousness. 

Jaskier lifted his head as he heard the order to for them to move, giving a sharp whistle, knowing Roach would hear it and would begin to make her way back.

Geralt’s eyes snapped open when he heard the familiar whistle, the one he used to summon Roach if she got spooked during a fight and went away far enough to safety. He rolled his head to the side, barely able to focus on the brightly dressed figure that was Jaskier, though his hazy gaze was drawn to the bright red trickling down the side of Jaskier’s leg. 

“ _Jaskier_ ,” he wheezed, trying to get up but barely able to move his limbs now. 

“Wait!” He heard Jaskier cry. “Wait, he’s not right! Let me help him, please!” 

“ _Jaskier_ ,” he wheezed again, hand falling out limply to the side as he reached for his bard, who was being dragged away from him once again. Black began to creep its way into his vision and he struggled to maintain his grip on consciousness, fighting it as hard as he could…but it wasn’t to be.

Geralt could hear Jaskier fighting, struggling to get back to him, and his stomach twisted with guilt. Despite losing the battle against this drug or potion or poison that Nilfgaard had used on him, he still knew that he had failed to protect Jaskier like he had sworn to.

Nilfgaard had him. Geralt had failed him.

“GERALT!” he heard Jaskier scream out for him, panic lacing his voice, just before everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woot! Second chapter! 
> 
> Okay, so I've just started an online course during lockdown (woo) so if I'm a little bit slower on the updates it's because of that...but hopefully I'll be able to skip most of the modules because I've had experience in them and it can be taken into account...
> 
> We'll see what happens, but no matter what I'll try to update at least once a week :P
> 
> Thanks for comments! Let me know what you think :)


	3. Familiar Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so Emhyr's true identity is revealed in this chapter, so if you don't want to know it...don't read on!

Jaskier’s eyes widened in horror as he watched Geralt go still, eyes finally slipping closed, freezing in the grips of his captors as he watched the man he cared for the most go dead still. He began struggled with renewed vigour when the hands began pulling at him again, trying to drag him away.

“No!” Jaskier cried out, collapsing his legs underneath him, trying to become deadweight. “Something’s wrong, please, let me help him!” 

“You’ve said that already,” the leader growled, coming to stand in front of Jaskier. “And I don’t care. I don’t need him healed. I need him out of commission for a while longer while we get away.”

“He’s no use if he’s dead!” Jaskier snarled back, gaining rolled eyes from the leader.

“It’s not going to kill him,” he huffed, as though he was speaking to a petulant child. “The potion the arrow was tipped in will only weaken him, that’s what we were told.”

“By who?”

The leader just smirked. “Someone who knows Witchers and their weaknesses.”

Jaskier blinked up at him, uncertain what to say to that. The leader just nodded to the soldiers holding Jaskier, who hoisted the bard up from the ground now that he had stopped struggling. Jaskier stared over at the still Geralt once more before he was thrown over a soldier’s shoulder, causing him to grunt as their tough shoulder armour smacked into his stomach, winding him. 

He glared at the ground as he was carried through the woods, the crackling sounds of the fire in their camp slowly fading away, a coldness – that wasn’t completely to do with the weather – washing through him. 

“H-How’d you know a potion would affect him?” Jaskier managed to croak out as he was carried. “How’d you know where to look?”

The leader gave a small laugh. “Oh, our Emperor knew that some sort of poison or potion would affect Witchers because _you_ told Cahir. It was only a matter of finding someone who knew what could affect a Witcher, to weaken them, sedate them, without killing them.”

Jaskier felt his stomach clench at that, feeling as though he had been punched in the chest, his breath catching in his throat. He went limp on the soldier’s shoulder, barely able to form a single coherent thought…except for the thought that it was all his fault. That was the singular thought that kept running through his head.

It was his weakness that allowed Nilfgaard to know that Witchers had a weakness to some poisons and potions. If he had only been stronger, fought against the truth potion, then Geralt would be safe…or at least able to fight back. 

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut that that thought, knowing that Geralt wouldn’t blame him, saying he couldn’t have fought back against the truth potion – which Jaskier knew himself…but it still didn’t help him feeling guilty. 

He silently begged to Melitele, to any God who listened, that the one who had given Nilfgaard knowledge of which potion to use hadn’t lied to them…and that the concoction used would only weaken Geralt for a time and not kill him.

Jaskier knew he wouldn’t be able to live if Geralt died because of him, if he died trying to protect him. 

He lifted his head at the sound of horses, heart dropping when he saw more soldiers surrounding a covered cart once they had exited the thicket of trees.

“W-What…?” Jaskier breathed, staring at them all. “How did you find us?”

“Nilfgaard has conquered Temeria,” the leader sneered triumphantly. “Our glorious Emperor now sits at Vizima and once one of his spies spotted you and the Witcher and sent word, we were sent into enemy territory to find you. It took a week to track you down, especially with the rain and staying out of the towns so we weren’t noticed, but you couldn’t remain hidden from us for long.” 

Jaskier shook his head in disbelief before yelping as he was dropped onto the damp ground, pain tearing through the laceration on his thigh. He looked up, breathing raggedly with pain, as he watched the soldiers mill about for a few moments, pulling heavy, woollen cloaks over their armour, hiding the unique, well known armour from sight. 

They would be able to travel more easily like this, Jaskier realised with horror. People would see traders or refugees…not soldiers. 

He looked up as the leader strode up to him, a vial held in hand. Jaskier eyed it warily before his gaze flickered up to the Nilfgaardian’s face.

“Are you going to take this without fuss?” he asked. 

“Depends what it is,” Jaskier said uncertainly. 

“Something that will make this trip a whole lot easier for all of us,” the leader responded, shaking the vial side to side. “Apparently it’ll put you in some sort of daze or suspended sleep…no need for food, water or bathroom breaks apparently.”

Jaskier shuddered, looking at the vial with trepidation. He didn’t want to take anything that would leave him unable to fight back, unable to react.

“Relax, princess,” the leader chuckled darkly, seeing the uneasiness on Jaskier’s face. “We’ve got orders to take you back unharmed and in one piece.”

Jaskier looked down at the wound on his leg with scepticism. 

“Mm, one or two wounds permitting,” the leader corrected. “You shouldn’t have fought back and killed two of my men.”

“Didn’t really feel like being taken prisoner again,” Jaskier snapped. The leader chuckled and shook his head, shaking the vial again.

“No one’s gonna take your virtue, princess. No one is going to go against our Emperor’s orders. One wound is going to be fun enough to explain,” the leader griped, grimacing at the end. Jaskier still shook his head and the leader sighed, tilting his head back in annoyance.

“Grab him,” he ordered, waving his hand. The soldiers immediately converged on Jaskier, grabbing him and holding him steady. One of the soldiers grabbed a fistful of Jaskier’s hair, yanking his head back, while another grabbed at Jaskier’s jaw, squeezing and pulling, forcing Jaskier’s mouth open. 

Jaskier gagged and coughed as the vial was opened and the contents were poured directly down Jaskier’s throat. He gagged, throat desperately working to try and get the vile liquid out of his throat, but he was unsuccessful, being forced to swallow so he didn’t choke. 

He gasped for breath, coughing as he was finally let go, allowing him to tilt his head back forward. He looked back up at the leader, who just tilted his head as he regarded the kneeling bard, seemingly just waiting for the potion to take effect. 

Jaskier blinked hard as his vision suddenly swam, head rolling back slightly on his neck, which was apparently what the leader had been waiting for as he smirked and nodded to the soldiers standing beside Jaskier. The dazed bard was pulled up from the damp grass and carried towards the covered carriage, head rolling around limply as he was carelessly carried away. 

“Careful,” the leader warned as Jaskier’s wounded leg was banged against the edge of the cart, causing a strangled, hurt noise to pull from Jaskier’s throat. “He’s already damaged enough. I don’t want to explain any further injuries to our Emperor.”

Jaskier whimpered as he was pulled onto the rough floor of the cart, manhandled so he was laying on his side, bound hands still behind his back but not crushed by his body. He groaned again, vision swimming and he pulled his legs up to his middle, trying to curl into a protective ball.

He didn’t feel right.

“G-Geralt,” he whispered, whimpering slightly, just wanting this all to be a nightmare. He just wanted to wake up curled against Geralt’s side, limbs entwined and delightfully warm and feeling oh-so safe.

“Watch over him,” he heard the leader order. “I don’t trust the potion Fringilla gave us and I don’t need this fool to do something stupid, like overcome the effects early and try and make a run for it. Just sit at the back of the cart and watch him. Do not touch him in any way or it’ll be your head the Emperor takes.”

“Yes, Captain.” 

Jaskier listened as his guard settled down at the back of the cart.

“Least watching you keeps me out of the rain,” the guard muttered somewhere near Jaskier’s feet. “Still don’t know why we were sent out to retrieve a bard of all people…and why we had to leave the Witcher behind.”

Jaskier wanted to respond, to sass back, but couldn’t get anything to respond. His heart beat was slow, almost at a resting pace, and no matter what Jaskier thought or did, he couldn’t get it speed up…couldn’t change the even pace of his breaths. 

He was terrified. He couldn’t move…couldn’t speak. Something wasn’t right. 

A small whimper escaped his lips as his eyes finally rolled back into his head, succumbing deeper into the potion’s grasp. 

Geralt sluggishly opened his eyes, feeling something somewhat wet and drooling lipping at his face. Roach was standing next to him, head bowed down so she could nip and slobber on his face.

“Roach,” he grunted, lifting a heavy arm and carefully pushing her head away, stopping her from covering his face any further with drool. He carefully sat up, groaning as his head swam with the movement. Geralt dazedly looked around the camp, even as his vision swam again, breathing getting heavy with the exertion of just managing to sit up. 

“Jaskier,” he croaked out, nostrils flaring desperately, hoping to catch any scent of Jaskier’s, praying that the bard had somehow gotten away from the Nilfgaardian soldiers.   
He couldn’t smell any fresh traces of Jaskier’s flowery and soft scent. All he could smell was blood, decay, rain and trodden mud. 

Geralt groaned again as his vision blurred and his head throbbed.

“Roach,” he called weakly, gaining the mare’s attention. She was soon at his side, huffing into his hair. Geralt reached up, grabbing at Roach’s cut reins and used that to pull himself to his feet, leaning against Roach’s side and panting heavily once he finally managed to get upright.

He needed a potion. He needed something to counteract whatever was running through his system so he could get on Jaskier’s trail. Geralt stumbled towards Roach’s rear and towards the packs hanging off of her. 

“Easy, Roach,” he mumbled as she shifted under his hands. She immediately stilled, seeming to understand that she was the only thing keeping Geralt upright. Geralt managed to work open the straps for the bag, blinking hard to clear his vision, sweat dripping down his face as he struggled to keep upright. 

His shaking fingers drifted across the bottles, unsure of which one to take, especially since he could barely straight anymore, whatever concoction he had poisoned with taking effect yet again, weakening him. 

His fingers landed on a dark purple bottle, one that he could clearly see, and Geralt quickly grabbed it, pulling it out of the bag. He took a shaky step back from Roach before he collapsed to his knees again. Panting heavily, Geralt looked around, squinting in the bright sunlight breaking its way through the thick foliage, and unable to contract his pupils to block it out. 

“Fuck, I hope this works,” Geralt muttered before he threw the purple vial, watching as it shattered upon a nearby log. He barely managed to summon the strength to lift his head when he heard the familiar sound of a portal opening.

“This better be…fuck, Geralt!” Geralt heard Yennefer cry out before he collapsed onto his side heavily, unable to keep upright anymore. Geralt was turned onto his back carefully, making him groan as the movement made everything swim disconcertingly.

Soft, cool hands immediately rested on his sweaty face, turning his head slightly to the side.

“Geralt, what’s happened?” Yennefer asked sharply, her pinched, worried face swimming into view for just a moment. 

“Yen…find Jaskier,” he managed to croak out. “Nilfgaard came…arrow…sedative…Yen…”

Yennefer stared down at Geralt, wide eyed, as the white haired Witcher suddenly lost consciousness, head rolling to the side. Yennefer cupped his warm, sweaty face for a moment longer before her purple eyes landed on the arrow still sticking out of Geralt’s shoulder.

“Oh, you idiot,” she sighed sadly, brushing back the dirty, sweaty white hair from Geralt’s face. “Why didn’t you remove the arrow? That would have let you heal quicker.” 

Yennefer quickly got to work removing the arrow and cleaning the wound. She tucked Geralt’s folded up cloak under his head once she knew Geralt would be okay, that his body just needed time to expel what concoction had been coating the arrow tip. 

Now she needed to figure out where Jaskier was. 

She looked around the tossed around camp, spotting Geralt’s and Jaskier’s belongings tossed around here and there. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw Jaskier’s lute lying in its case, forgotten by the embers of the fire. 

Her purple eyes landed on the hilt of Jaskier’s dagger, which was stabbed into a pack, holding a letter firmly against it. She crouched beside the pack, fingers lightly angling up the bottom of the paper so she could read the note scrawled upon it.

“Fuck, Jaskier,” she breathed, feeling ill as she finished reading it. Worry squeezed at her heart and tightened her chest, knowing that Jaskier was truly in danger now. She stood up, reaching out with her magic to find any trace of Jaskier. This was what she hoping to prevent when she gave Geralt that vial. If they got into trouble, he was to break it and she would know and be at his location in mere seconds...much more trustworthy compared to the xenovox. But sadly, it looked like it hadn't help...or they hadn't been able to reach the vial in time.

She followed a weak trail out of the woods, knowing Geralt would be fine for now. Yennefer paused when she stepped out of the thicket of trees, frowning as she crouched down by a muddled, muddy mess of footprints, hoof prints and wheel marks. 

The trail had either been washed away by rain or by the passing traders which looked to have passed by. Yennefer couldn’t tell which footprints went in which direction and her magic was no use, with any traces having been washed away with the rain. 

With a heavy sigh, Yennefer straightened up, looking sadly at the muddied trail in front of her, heart aching. 

She wasn’t looking forward to telling Geralt that Jaskier was gone and that there was no trail. She wasn’t looking forward to having to break the news to Ciri. Yennefer knew that they wouldn’t give up on their beloved puppy…but she did not know where to begin to look for him, or what Nilfgaard even wanted him for.

With a heavy heart, sighing softly, she turned on her heel and walked back into the woods and towards Geralt.

She just hoped that Jaskier stayed the hopeful, positive boy that he always was…and that he would fight and hold out for them to rescue him.

“Hang on, Puppy,” Yennefer whispered into the soft breeze. “We’re going to find you. Don’t give up on us.”

She walked back into the clearing, sighing softly when she saw that Geralt was still out. Restlessness rushed through her, making her uneasy. She needed to do something. She wanted to be hunting down Jaskier, but she knew she couldn’t leave Geralt here in the state he was…and she truly didn’t know where to begin to look for Jaskier, not yet. 

She moved around the camp, carefully packing away Geralt’s and Jaskier’s belongings after brushing the dirt off of them. She grimaced as she moved the bodies of two Nilfgaardian soldiers off to the side. She would deal with them later after Geralt awoke, before the ghouls came for them. 

Yennefer carefully adjusted Jaskier’s lute, placing it in its case properly before she closed the lid, resting her hand upon the case for a moment, trying not to think of its owner who had been taken from them yet again, leaving this instrument silent for now. 

She picked up Jaskier’s journal, carefully tucking the torn pages back into it, pausing here and there to read Jaskier’s scribbled notes or lyrics. She hesitated for a moment as she went to place Jaskier’s journal back into one of the bags. Sighing, Yennefer stood up, keeping Jaskier’s journal with her for now, before she went back to tidying up the tossed camp site. 

After the camp was cleaned, Yennefer settled back down to sit beside Geralt. She watched over him for a while, absently chewing on her bottom lip thoughtfully. 

With a deep sigh, dreading what she must do, Yennefer managed to find a couple of pieces of blank paper tucked into Jaskier’s journal and pulled them out. She carefully wrote the same message four times; one for Vesemir, one for Eskel, one for Lambert and one for Tissaia – though Yennefer asked Tissaia to pass on the message to Triss and Sabrina. Yennefer also added on a bit extra to Vesemir’s letter, just so he could prepare Ciri…and that they would be returning to Kaer Morhen for Geralt to recover and so they could plan their next move. 

Yennefer looked over the letters once more, hating that she had to be the one to tell them that Jaskier, their beloved puppy, was gone once again. With another heavy sigh, Yennefer twitched her fingers, watching as the letters disappeared, finding their ways to Jaskier’s friends and loved ones. 

She looked back to Geralt once the letters were gone, frowning slightly at him. He was still far too still for her liking…and she knew how much it was going to hurt Geralt when he truly woke up and found out that Jaskier was gone, that Nilfgaard had managed to get the upper hand on them. 

She knew Geralt would blame himself, that he would think that he failed to protect Jaskier, but Yennefer knew for a fact that wasn’t true. The only reason that Nilfgaard managed to get to Jaskier was because they managed to drug him, but Geralt would still find a way to blame himself. He was foolishly idiotic like that. 

She reached out again, to tentatively brush her hand against Geralt’s warm face, before she sighed, settling back to wait for the stubborn Witcher to wake up. Roach whinnied softly from the edge of the camp where she was grazing.

“Mm, I think so too, Roach,” Yennefer murmured. “We’re going to need to look after him…but he’s going to struggle. But we’ll be here for him.”

Roach snorted, making Yennefer smile slightly as she looked back to Geralt, sighing once again.

Geralt slowly came back to awareness, sun shining directly onto his closed eyes. Wincing, Geralt turned his head to the side, sluggishly blinking his eyes open.

“Oh, good, you’re finally awake,” a familiar, sharp voice said. Geralt rolled his head, still feeling a bit weak, until he saw Yennefer, who was sitting on a nearby log.

“Yen?” he croaked. “When…how long?”

“You called me yesterday and you’ve been out for a day since then,” Yennefer told him, purple eyes fixed on him firmly. “I don’t know how long you were out before then.”

“Jaskier?” 

Yennefer sighed heavily and shook her head regretfully. “Tracks were unfollowable and the rain washed away any trace of him.”

Geralt rolled his head back around so he was staring right up at the tree tops, where the sun was breaking through the thick foliage. He felt numb, like something had been ripped from him, as though he had been broken apart.

Jaskier was gone. 

“We’re going to find him, Geralt,” Yennefer’s voice said reassuringly, softly. “We’re going to find him.”

“I let them get to us, Yen,” Geralt managed to get out roughly. “They managed to sneak up on us and I got hit with that arrow before I even knew they were there. I couldn’t protect Jaskier. I ended up on the ground and he ended up being the one protecting _me_.”

Yennefer frowned at that, leaning forward.

“He fought against them, killed two of them, but he couldn’t fight back against all of them…and they got him, Yen,” Geralt’s voice broke at that. “He was screaming out for me a-and I couldn’t help him!” 

A soft hand took his callused one, squeezing it softly.

“Geralt, look at me,” Yennefer said, voice firm and leaving no room for arguments. Geralt tilted his head to meet her firm gaze. “This was _not_ your fault. They drugged you and whatever they used on you was _strong_. You’re going to be recovering from it for a little while. Jaskier knows, as well as I do, that this isn’t your fault. He knew you would have done all you could to protect him…you _did_ all that you could.”

“He told me he didn't blame me,” Geralt whispered. “He told me to protect our girl.” 

Yennefer barely kept from wincing at that, reminded of how upset Ciri would be when she learnt that Jaskier had been captured again. Speaking of Ciri, Yennefer reached out and grabbed the note that was left stabbed into one of the packs. 

“This was left for you,” she told him carefully. “Stabbed into one of your packs with Jaskier’s dagger.”

Geralt stared at the piece of paper apprehensively before looking to Yennefer. “T-Tell me what it says,” he pleaded, knowing he would be unable to read it. 

“It says to bring Ciri to the nearest Nilfgaardian garrison,” Yennefer murmured, “or that we’ll never see Jaskier alive again.”

Jaskier drifted in and out of consciousness, barely able to keep track of time and days going by. He could barely make heads and tails of what was going on around him, feeling like he was in a permanent daze.

Until he woke up to the sounds of calls and yells. 

Jaskier blinked, hands reflexively flexing in their bonds behind him, as the yells from outside got louder. He carefully lifted his head, blinking tiredly, finding a Nilfgaardian soldier staring back at him.

“Huh, looks like Fringilla’s potion worked perfectly,” the soldier mused.

“What do you mean?” Jaskier rasped, voice rough from lack of water…though it didn’t feel like his body had suffered because of it and Jaskier was very familiar with the symptoms of dehydration. 

“We’ve just reached Vizima,” the soldier told him, watching as Jaskier’s face paled. “You’ll be facing our Emperor shortly.”

Jaskier shuddered as he slowly rolled to sit up properly, hearing the sounds of Vizima bustling around the cart. He pulled his knees up and rested his forehead against them, trying not to panic. 

He knew he would have had to be in that daze for at least a couple of days to get to Vizima from where he and Geralt had been travelling…and he was scared for Geralt. He hoped that Geralt had recovered enough to take a potion to help him purge whatever drug was in his system, so he was no longer in danger and could contact Yennefer. 

Jaskier was pulled from his thoughts of Geralt when the cart came to a sudden stop. He warily lifted his head, watching as the fabric covering was lifted at the opening and the soldier sitting with Jaskier hopped out. The captain peered in, smirking when he saw Jaskier was awake and aware.

“Good, you’re awake,” he said before he stepped to the side. “Out.”

Jaskier took in a deep breath before he shuffled to the opening, wincing as his arm was grabbed and he was yanked out of the cart and onto his feet. He looked around the courtyard of the Vizima palace, swallowing deeply when he saw the amount of Nilfgaardian soldiers milling about. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Buttercup being led away by a soldier and turned his head away solemnly, unable to see her go. 

Jaskier winced as his upper arm was grabbed tightly and he was dragged towards the palace doors, limping along as best as he could as pain throbbed through the laceration on his thigh.

They were met at the palace doors by a well-dressed, balding, somewhat rotund man, who looked down at Jaskier disdainfully.

“I would have preferred to have had him bathed and cleaned, but our glorious Emperor wants to see him at once,” the man told the Nilfgaardian Captain.

“Of course,” the captain said, bowing his head. 

“He seems a bit damaged,” the major-domo said as he led them through the palace halls.

“He fought back,” the captain responded shortly, shooting a cold look at the balding man. “It was the only way to capture him.”

“If you say so.”

Jaskier stared at the two in disbelief, but said nothing as he was pulled down the tiled halls, which were lined with guards. The major-domo paused outside of a wooden door before knocking curtly three times. 

“Enter.”

Jaskier winced as he was pulled inside the room and roughly forced to his knees, shoulders shoved down towards the ground in a rough bow. 

“You found him,” said a somewhat familiar voice, though Jaskier couldn’t quite place it. “And the Witcher?”

“Alive with the note left, your Majesty,” the captain replied respectfully. “Though the bard was injured slightly in our attempt to capture him. He fought back and killed two of my men with the Witcher’s sword.”

There was a low, surprised chuckle. “How curious. Let him go, I doubt he can do anything remarkably foolish here.”

Jaskier slowly rolled his shoulders as they were let go, as much as he was able to with his hands bound behind his back, and slowly sat up so he could face the Emperor for the first time.

Black hair with greying temples that was brushed and oiled back, long enough to sweep the Emperor’s shoulders…but it was the brown eyes and the familiar set of the face that had Jaskier reeling, paling as though he had just seen a ghost.

“Duny?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-daaa
> 
> I've changed a few things around, like Emhyr getting his hands on Temeria and Vizima a lot earlier than he did compared to the games, and the way he got it will change slightly too...
> 
> Sorry if there are spelling/grammatical errors in this one, I've been noticing since I've had the viral meningitis that I've been struggling with words a bit, I have to re-read sentences two-three times because I've misread a word and repeatedly too, and it's been happening a lot more frequently...it's been weird...


	4. Duny

Jaskier stared at the figure sitting across from him in complete disbelief. The man leaned forward, elbows on the ornate desk in front of him as he stared at Jaskier in return.  
Sure, the man was older, supporting a few more wrinkles and grey hairs…and the once unruly black curls were oiled back and tamed. The once lively brown eyes were now cold and serious, same with the set of the jaw…but Jaskier _knew_ him.

“Duny…how?” he croaked again before grunting in pain as a hard kick was planted into his unguarded stomach, sending him doubling over, heaving for breath. “Fuck! What is it with you Nilfgaardians and going for my stomach?!” 

“You will address our emperor with respect!” the captain snarled. Duny just held up his hand.

“Leave us,” he ordered his men, who startled at the order. “The bard isn’t foolish enough to try anything. There is nowhere he can go.”

“Sire, are…are you certain?” his chamberlain simpered, glancing at the still panting Jaskier with uncertainty.

Duny looked at him coldly. “Do you believe that I cannot handle a mere bard?” 

“No…no, of course not, your Majesty!” the chamberlain said quickly, paling as he realised that he just insult the emperor. 

“He is a quick one, Sire,” the captain added. “He killed two of my men with the Witcher’s sword.” 

Duny looked at Jaskier with a raised eyebrow, momentarily surprised before he smirked. 

“That may be…but I’m certain Jaskier knows that trying anything will be akin to suicide,” he finally said, looking back to his men. “Get him up into a chair so I don’t need to keep looking down at him and then leave us.”

Jaskier winced as he was pulled up from the ground and shoved towards the desk, an uncomfortable chair being pulled from its place against the side wall and placed in front of the desk with Jaskier being shoved into it unceremoniously.

Duny frowned when he saw the blood staining the bard’s once blue pants. 

“What happened to his leg?” he asked sharply. “My orders were unharmed.”

“It was the only way, your Majesty,” the captain said quickly, bowing his head. “He was fighting back with the Witcher’s sword and had already killed two of my men. I had to disarm him so I could capture him alive.”

Duny stared at the captain for a moment before he hummed, brown eyes turning to Jaskier once more.

“Leave us,” he ordered once more, speaking no more of Jaskier’s wounds. Jaskier glanced back when he heard the captain give a small exhale of relief, before he and the chamberlain and the guards left the room. 

Jaskier shifted in the chair, wincing as the ropes rubbed against his chafed wrists. Slowly, he looked back to Duny…or who once was Duny…finding the man was looking at him.

“So,” Jaskier started awkwardly, unsure of where to begin. “You’re Emperor of Nilfgaard now, huh?”

The Emperor just tilted his head, regarding Jaskier with cold, sharp eyes. Jaskier resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably under the sharp gaze, instead meeting the unerring stare. A cold smile pulled on Duny’s lips and he leaned back, still regarding Jaskier.

“Yes,” he replied simply, saying no more past that. Jaskier shifted on the chair, uncomfortable in the silence.

“What happened?” Jaskier blurted out, unable to contain himself. “We all mourned you and Pavetta, Duny!” 

“First of all, Bard, my name is no longer Duny and you will do well to remember that,” the emperor said warningly. “It is Emhyr Var Emeris…but you will address me as ‘your majesty’ or ‘your excellence’…or you will be punished for your disrespect.”

Jaskier scowled at him, eyes darkening. “What happened?” Jaskier asked him, before his blue eyes turned slightly hopeful. “I-If you survived…d-did Pavetta?”

“No,” Emhyr answered somewhat regretfully. “Pavetta is truly gone.”

Jaskier bowed his head at that, swallowing deeply, heart breaking ever so slightly again. For a moment, just a moment, he had hope that Pavetta had survived, that Ciri would have her mother…but it wasn’t to be. 

“Why are you doing this?” Jaskier whispered a few moments later, lifting his head to look at Emhyr with exhausted, weary eyes. “Why hunt me? Why burn Cintra down? Why hunt Ciri?”

“Cirilla is my daughter,” Emhyr answered. “I want her back.”

“Then why did you leave her in the first place?!” Jaskier asked exasperatedly. “She needed you!”

“I had things that needed to be done. An Usurper who needed to be dethroned. My people needed to be saved,” Emhyr said simply. “Now Nilfgaard has settled, grown stronger…and I need my daughter back, for Nilfgaard’s future.”

Jaskier stared at him, blinking in disbelief.

“Then why hunt _me_?”

“You know the Witcher, the one who tied himself to Cirilla through Destiny,” Emhyr continued, leaning forward. “I know that Geralt of Rivia and Cirilla will meet. I know that they are probably already together, having been led together through Destiny…and I know that the best way to get to the Witcher is through _you_.”

Jaskier shook his head. “You’re wrong…about all of it.”

The Emperor’s lips twisted slightly as he leaned forward, eyes staring intently at Jaskier. 

“The whole reason that Geralt was at Pavetta’s betrothal was because of you,” Emhyr said. “He came to protect _you_ , his best and only real friend, from vengeful cuckolds. If he hadn’t been there to protect you, he wouldn’t have been there at all.”

Jaskier just blinked, swallowing deeply as Geralt’s words from the mountain came back, blaming him for the Child Surprise. He quickly pushed that memory aside. He and Geralt had moved passed that. It was all in the past now. 

“Your men followed us for a week before they got me, you’ve had your spies looking for us for a year now,” Jaskier managed to say, voice even despite how his heart raced in his chest. “If Cirilla had been with us, you would have known. She would have been seen. After all, you’ve been looking for her just as hard as you had your men search for me…even more so.”

Emhyr leaned back once again, humming in agreement. “Yes, she wasn’t with you in your travels with the Witcher…but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t know where she is, that _you_ don’t know where she is.”

“I don’t,” Jaskier snapped. He didn’t care that Emhyr was Duny, that he was Ciri’s father. Something wasn’t right here. No father faked their death and then came back ten years later, burning down Cintra and half of the Continent with a vengeance just to get his daughter back. 

There was something else at play here, something more that Emhyr wasn’t willing to disclose, and Jaskier would be damned before he gave away Ciri, risked her safety, to this madman. 

Emhyr just made a contemplative noise in his throat, though it didn’t look like he believed Jaskier. 

Silence fell in the room as Emhyr continued to stare at Jaskier, studying him, while Jaskier fidgeted uncomfortably, pulling at the bonds tying his wrists together.

Finally the silence became too much for Jaskier and he looked back to Emhyr, uncertain and a little apprehensive.

“What do you plan to do to me?” Jaskier asked warily. 

“Not sure just yet,” Emhyr answered truthfully. “We’ll see if Geralt complies with my demands to bring Cirilla to a Nilfgaardian garrison…but until then, well, we’ll figure out something to do with you.”

Jaskier shuddered at that and Emhyr barked out for his guards. He flinched as the door opened and his guards, plus the chamberlain came in. 

“Take Jaskier to a spare room, get him cleaned up and that wound treated,” Emhyr ordered, surprising Jaskier.

“A room, sir?” a guard asked him, looking at Jaskier with suspicion. “Not a cell?”

“No,” Emhyr said shortly, giving Jaskier an appraising look. “We’ll find something for him to do…and I’d rather him be in a decent condition in case we have need of him.”

Jaskier swallowed deeply, glancing at the guards as they nodded. He quickly shifted forward, dodging their hands as they went to grab him.

“Y-Your Majesty, i-if I may ask something of you,” Jaskier quickly blurted out, gaining Emhyr’s attention. 

“What is it?”

“Your captain, the one who grabbed me, he…he took something off of Geralt,” Jaskier explained, hands flexing in his bonds as he glanced uneasily at the guards. “He took Geralt’s medallion…and…please, could I have it?”

Emhyr stared at Jaskier for a moment, arching a brow.

“Please,” Jaskier pleaded quietly, bowing his head. “I-I promise I won’t do anything foolish. I won’t try to run. I’ll behave…please, just let me have Geralt’s medallion.”

Emhyr looked to one of the guards. “Fetch the captain,” he ordered before looking back to Jaskier, whose blue eyes were wide and hopeful. 

He remained staring at Jaskier, looking contemplative, before he looked to the guards. “Cut his hands free. He won’t be going anywhere…and I’d rather him not damage his wrists.”

A guard quickly complied and Jaskier winced as he rolled his sore shoulders before bringing his arms out in front of him and massaging the feeling back into his sore wrists. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier quickly murmured, glancing at Emhyr, who just blinked at him. Jaskier looked around as the door opened behind him, seeing the captain walk in. 

“You summoned me, my Lord?” the captain asked, bowing low. 

“Yes, Captain,” Emhyr drawled. “I believe you took something off of the Witcher…a medallion.”

“Y-Yes, sir.” 

“Give it here,” ordered Emhyr, holding out his hand. The captain hurried to dig the medallion out of his pocket, stumbling in his haste to give it to Emhyr. The emperor hummed as he stared at the unassuming medallion, emblazoned with a snarling wolf. He turned it around in his hands a couple of times, trying to discover if there was anything hidden within it. Finally he held it up, the medallion swinging back and forth at the end of the chain as he turned his attention back to Jaskier, who had straightened up, his gaze fixed firmly on the medallion.

“What’s so special about it?” Emhyr questioned. “Why do you want it so badly?”

“There is nothing really special about it,” Jaskier admitted, eyes still fixed on Geralt’s medallion. “It vibrates when it senses certain types of magic and monsters nearby, but that’s it.”

“Then why do you want it so badly?” Emhyr pushed, eyes flashing warningly. 

“Because it’s Geralt’s,” Jaskier said quietly, chewing on his bottom lip. “The medallion, it represents the school that Geralt was trained at. If…if something happens to Geralt, that medallion has to find its way back to the other Witchers, part of their funeral rites. I just want to make sure it’s safe.”

Emhyr hummed slightly under his breath, looking at the medallion once more. He knew that Jaskier and Geralt were close, that much had been clear from the betrothal and from the times he had spoken to Jaskier afterwards, who had always been willing to chat about the Witcher, regaling them with dramatic stories…though only when Calanthe wasn’t nearby to hear. 

Emhyr looked back to Jaskier before he nodded, holding the medallion out towards Jaskier. Jaskier quickly moved forward, carefully taking the medallion from Emhyr’s hands. He watched as the bard shifted back into his seat, cradling the medallion in his hands, relief washing over his face. 

Jaskier’s hands shook as he held the medallion, carefully swiping a thumb over the wolf engraving, wiping away any traces of dirt or dust left behind. He was so relieved that he had it in his hands, that it wasn’t going to be in the hands of a Nilfgaardian, who would use it for betting or bragging purposes. 

He was broken from his thoughts by Emhyr’s voice, ordering his followers to take Jaskier to his room and to tend to his wounds.

“Find him some decent clothes too,” Emhyr added, eyeing off Jaskier’s filthy, but still brightly coloured clothes. “None of these garish colours.”

“Of course, your Excellence,” the chamberlain simpered, before he looked to the guards. Jaskier looped the chain over his head, settling the medallion against his chest, before he allowed the guards to get him to his feet. He paused for a moment, hesitating.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Jaskier murmured, glancing at Emhyr, who looked slightly surprised by Jaskier’s words. He just gave a curt nod in return, watching as Jaskier was led away. 

Emhyr sat there for a moment, tapping his fingers against the ornate desk top, deep in thought. 

He knew that Jaskier knew how to deal with royalty, how to work around them, talk to them, appease them. He knew that Jaskier knew how to play the room, to make things work for him…except if there was a vengeful lover involved. 

Emhyr wasn’t an idiot, he knew that Jaskier would try to figure out a way to escape. He wasn’t one to remain idle after all. Jaskier always left when the weather changed, when he got too antsy to remain in one place, so Emhyr knew that he would try something.

He tilted his head as a sudden thought came to him. There were a few people who were far too familiar with Jaskier and his behaviour, especially when it came to escaping. Fringilla was busy, off overseeing different garrisons and searches for Cirilla…and Emhyr knew that she had an immense dislike for the bard, so she wouldn’t be too helpful when it came to knowing the bard’s behaviourisms.

But there was another who would be helpful.

Emhyr looked at the guard by his door, who straightened when he realised that his Emperor was staring at him.

“Send for Cahir,” he ordered.

Jaskier limped through the hallways of the palace, surrounded by his escort of guards, following after the chamberlain as he stalked down the halls, leading them all. Jaskier winced as he was forced to climb a few flights of stairs, pulling at the laceration on his thigh. 

“In here,” the chamberlain said testily as he opened the door to a room. Jaskier looked around the room, surprised at the comfort of the room he was given. There was a large bed pressed against the wall, covered with thick blankets and pillows. There were two large, wooden bookshelves lining the span of one of the walls, though there was a space between them for the large fireplace. 

Large windows lined one of the walls, a seating alcove placed at the base of each window, which was also covered in pillows. 

Jaskier turned to face the chamberlain, seeing he was talking to servants and the guards.

“Water for the bath and medical supplies,” he was ordering the servants. “Also clothing and food.”

“Yes, sir,” the servants murmured, glancing at Jaskier curiously before they quickly darted off. 

“Our Imperial Majesty wants guards on his door at all times. No less than two at a time. Also two more by the stairs,” he continued on, now focused on the guards.

“Got it, Mererid,” one of the guards said, nodding. “He won’t get away.”

Jaskier sighed, turning around to look at the room again. He walked over to an ornate wooden screen tucked in the corner of the room, peering behind it to see a large wooden bath behind it. A vanity stood next to it, covered in different shaped and coloured vials. 

There was a hidden drain in the stone floor behind the bath. It was attached to a pipe that led to the outside of the palace, allowing for the water to be tipped down it, that was it could run down the side of the palace wall and into the garden below. 

It paid to be rich of course. 

The water could be disposed of easily, that way the servants only had to get the water up to the baths, not having to worry about carting it back down.

Jaskier moved out from behind the screen, looking around the room sombrely. 

There was only one door to the room, making it the only way in and out…and it would always be guarded. Jaskier frowned as he regarded the large windows, walking over to them and peering outside, seeing the courtyard far below him.

And of course he was too high up to jump or climb down. 

He looked around when he heard footsteps, seeing the servants coming back in, all carrying buckets of water. The chamberlain turned to Jaskier, frowning as he took in his dishevelled appearance. 

“Will I need to get the guards to watch over you while you are bathed?” he asked.

Jaskier shook his head, shoulders slumping slightly. “No,” he murmured. “I-I won’t try anything.”

“Good,” the chamberlain said, relaxing slightly himself. “This way then.”

Jaskier limped over, heading towards the screen and the bath. He watched as the servants finished filling the bath, adding in oils to the steaming water. He glanced to the side when someone came to stand beside him, seeing it was the chamberlain.

“So, do I get to know your name?” Jaskier asked him, watching as the chamberlain arched a surprise eyebrow in his direction. “If I’m going to be kept here, might as well know who’s going to be, uh, guarding me, I guess.”

“I am Mererid,” the chamberlain introduced himself. “I am the emperor’s Chamberlain. I help to run the household, keep things in order so our emperor can focus on the more important matters.”

“Important job,” Jaskier muttered under his breath, gaining a suspicious but surprised look from Mererid.

“Yes, quite,” he agreed. “Now get out of those filthy clothes and get into the bath.”

Jaskier sighed but did what was asked. He pushed away the awkwardness of being seen naked, but he hadn’t been body shy for a long time…and he just wanted to get this over and done with. 

Jaskier did leave the medallion on though, not willing to take it off.

He hissed as he slipped into the hot water, the water making his wound sting, but he pushed that pain aside as he settled down into the water. He glanced at Mererid, who ordered the servants to clean Jaskier.

“I can clean myself,” Jaskier pointed out, eyeing the rather enthusiastic servants warily. 

“Let them do their duties,” was all Mererid said. 

Jaskier huffed, leaning back against the bath side, but allowing the servants to scrub at his skin. 

He lifted his hand to touch the medallion, heart clenching as he thought of the conversation he and Geralt had had by the fire, before Nilfgaard had revealed themselves, when they had been planning their first night in a town, in a proper inn. How they planned that they first thing they did was bathe in a steaming hot bath, even if they had to share one.

But here Jaskier was, in a hot bath, being bathed by overly attentive servants who scrubbed at every inch of him, no matter how much he squirmed uncomfortably, while Geralt could still be out there, in the cold and the wet. 

Jaskier winced as his hair was washed, getting scrubbed thoroughly, the tugs at his scalp pulling him from his morose thoughts. 

He dunked himself under the water when he was directed to, washing out the oils from his hair before he came back up, rubbing the water from his eyes. He glanced up through his wet fringe to see a male servant was holding up a large towel, looking bored. 

With a sigh, Jaskier stood up, climbing out of the bath. He grudgingly allowed himself to be dried off before he grabbed the towel and wrapped it around his waist, just wanting some sort of covering back. 

He was led out from behind the screen and to a nearby armchair, being ordered to sit down in it. Jaskier slumped down upon it, glowering slightly at the servants as they milled about. He looked up as someone new entered the room, carrying a satchel. He was a tall man, head completely bald with a serious look on his face.

“Mererid,” the new man greeted, though his serious expression remained. “I hear I have a patient.”

“Our Imperial Majesty wants you to treat him,” Mererid explained, indicating to Jaskier. “He received a wound during his capture and it needs to be treated.”

The medic nodded, looking to Jaskier and walking to his side, placing the medical bag down on a nearby table.

“Lift the towel so I can see the injury,” the medic ordered, not an inflection of kindness in those words. Jaskier glowered at him before doing so.

“So much for a bedside manner,” he muttered under his breath, gaining a glare from the medic. The medic just went about stitching up the laceration, never looking or speaking to Jaskier as he did so.

Jaskier found himself missing Jon as this emotionless medic dabbed a salve over the wound before wrapping it in a bandage. Jon was a kind medic, with a good bedside manner. He didn’t care that Jaskier wasn’t Nilfgaardian, he was still kind as he did his duty. 

“Make sure he stays off it when he can and doesn’t do anything strenuous,” the medic told Mererid. “The dressing will have to be changed every couple of days.”

Jaskier just sighed and tilted his head back, closing his eyes tiredly. 

“Keep awake,” Mererid’s voice said from beside him suddenly. “I have clothes coming for you and some food.”

Jaskier’s stomach gave a growl at that and he winced, hand going to lightly rest upon his stomach.

He didn’t know how long it was since he last ate…since he and Geralt were sitting by the fire.

It didn’t take very long for some clothes to be found for him and brought up. Jaskier grimaced when he saw the black clothing, wishing they had some sort of colour to them, but everything in Nilfgaard seemed to be black, white or some sort of dark, muted red. 

Jaskier said nothing though as he quickly got changed, just wanting to be wearing some sort of clothes and not wanting to be exposed any longer. The black pants were some nice, soft lounge pants, while the shirt was about two sizes too big, but Jaskier wasn’t complaining.

Mererid eyed the ill-fitting shirt with disdain though, before muttering something about finding more appropriate sized clothes. 

“The door to your room will be locked and guarded at all times,” Mererid informed Jaskier firmly as some food was brought in. “Do not try anything foolish because you will be caught and _severely_ punished, understood?”

“Understood,” Jaskier agreed bitterly as he slumped back in the armchair. Mererid gave a final nod, glancing at the fireplace, which had been lit, before looking back to Jaskier.

“Our glorious Emperor has ordered that you be guarded, yet treated as a guest,” Mererid continued. “There is a jug of water there, but if you need more, or if you need more wood for the fire, just knock on the door and inform the guard.”

“I will,” Jaskier murmured, seeing that Mererid was waiting for confirmation that he had heard. Mererid nodded once more before he swept from the room, the heavy wooden doors shutting behind him and leaving Jaskier completely alone.

Sighing, Jaskier tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling and leaving the food untouched for now, not feeling very hungry. Absently he reached up to grab at Geralt’s medallion hanging around his own neck and closed his eyes, fear and loneliness and uncertainty tearing through him.

Jaskier gave a quiet sob as he clutched the medallion tighter in his hand.

“Fuck, Geralt,” he whispered, pleading into the empty room. “Please be okay,” he begged, sobbing once again, unable to hold back the tears anymore, everything just becoming too much. “Please find me. Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter woo :)
> 
> So, turns out that the illness I had may have rattled my brain a bit, so I've got to go get tests done and all...which is absolutely terrifying...
> 
> But writing this and reading all of your lovely, encouraging comments is helping a lot, being a great distraction, so thank you all xx


	5. Kaer Morhen

Geralt leaned against Roach’s side, feeling oddly weak, as he watched Yennefer pick up the last few things around the camp, now packed up. Yennefer looked up at him, over Roach’s back, as she secured Geralt’s swords to Roach’s opposite side, safe and secured in their sheathe bag on Roach's saddle. 

“We’re going back to Kaer Morhen,” Yennefer informed him as she walked back to the camp, picking up the last item.

Geralt stared at Jaskier’s lute case held in her hands, before shaking his head.

“We can’t,” he said, a growl lacing his voice. “Jaskier is out there, Yennefer!”

“And you can barely stand upright without help!” Yennefer shot back, purple eyes flaring angrily. “You are no help to Jaskier like this, Geralt! We need to regroup, we need to locate Jaskier and then we need to plan…and you need to heal, regain your strength so you can _actually_ be useful.”

Geralt snarled at that before turning his head away, his grip tightening on Roach’s saddle, the leather creaking slightly under his harsh grip, as his jaw clenched angrily.  
Yennefer sighed, stepping forward to stand by Geralt’s side.

“I’m sorry, Geralt, but you had to hear it,” Yennefer told him, her voice still firm. “If we by some miracle found Jaskier now and we went rushing in unprepared and with you in the state you’re in, well, we wouldn’t win. Jaskier wouldn’t survive, Geralt. They’d kill him when we failed.”

Geralt gritted his teeth together once more before he gave a jerky nod. He knew Yennefer had a point. He just hated hearing it, knowing that he was letting Jaskier down, letting Jaskier be imprisoned and hurt. 

“Here,” Yennefer’s voice said softly and somewhat gently. “You carry this. Take care of it as your promise to return it to our beloved puppy.” 

Geralt looked back to Yennefer, seeing she was carefully holding out Jaskier’s lute case. Geralt carefully took it with his free hand, slipping the strap over one shoulder, shouldering the surprising weight of the instrument. 

Yennefer looked around the camp once more, making sure nothing was left behind, before she looked to Roach, eyeing off the packs secured to the mare’s back, with Geralt also using the mare to stay upright. 

With a soft sigh, Yennefer took hold of Roach’s cut reins.

“Come on, Roach,” she murmured before she turned and conjured up a portal. “Time to go. Make sure the oaf doesn’t fall.”

“Heard that,” Geralt grunted, making Yennefer smirk.

“Oh, I know.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, huffing slightly, but walked alongside Roach through the swirling, purple portal with Yennefer leading them through it. 

He blinked when they came out the other side, exhaling softly when he looked upon the familiar stone and mortar walls of Kaer Morhen, the weathered stable just ahead. He looked to the side when he heard the main doors open, the heavy doors scraping against the stone steps. Vesemir was stepping out, his weathered face pinched in concern as he looked upon them all. 

Ciri came darting out from behind him, wide eyes frantic with worry.

“Geralt!” Ciri cried out, racing down the steps to Geralt’s side and throwing her arms around him, taking care of Jaskier’s lute case, once Geralt lifted his arm. “Are you okay? What happened? Is Jaskier okay?”

Geralt winced at that question, looking to Vesemir.

“Ciri, take Roach to the stable and get her settled in,” Vesemir ordered as he approached them. Ciri bit her lip, looking hesitantly at Vesemir, looking like she wanted to argue before she looked to Geralt again, noticing how much paler he was, his golden eyes filled with pain and exhaustion. 

“Y-Yes, Uncle Vesemir,” Ciri murmured, squeezing Geralt in a hug once more. “I-I’ll bring your stuff inside too.”

“Thank you, Ciri,” Geralt murmured, gently touching the back of her head.

“Come here, Pup,” Vesemir sighed, seeing that Geralt was using Roach to stay upright. He moved to Geralt’s side, grabbing Geralt’s arm and pulling it over his own shoulders before wrapping his arm around Geralt’s waist, under the lute case – which Vesemir knew Geralt would not take off - , supporting his weight. “Easy now.”

Vesemir slowly led Geralt up the stairs, with Yennefer close behind them, watching Geralt’s every movement with sharp eyes. 

“In here,” Vesemir murmured as he turned them into the small hall. Yennefer stepped up to carefully take the lute case off of Geralt’s shoulder so Vesemir could lower him down to sit on the bench. Yennefer leaned the lute case beside Geralt’s leg before she shifted to sit down on the bench just a bit further down from Geralt, giving Vesemir room to fuss over him.

“What happened?” Vesemir asked gently as he tilted Geralt’s head up so he could meet his dulled golden eyes. “My boy, tell me everything.”

“Didn’t sense them until it was too late,” Geralt muttered, turning his eyes downcast so he didn’t have to meet Vesemir’s gaze. “The rain blocked their footsteps…I didn’t know until they were right on top of us and they managed to hit me with an arrow. It weakened me a-and I couldn’t fight back. Jaskier…Jaskier fought back instead b-but they took him. I failed him, Vesemir. They took him.” 

Vesemir frowned at that, shifting Geralt’s shirt slightly so he could look at the bandages wrapped around his shoulder. 

“What was on the arrow?” he questioned, leaving the Jaskier part of the conversation aside for now. That conversation would need more time, more consideration and gentle words. 

Geralt shook his head, shoulders tensed. “Don’t know.”

“Here,” Yennefer said, producing the arrow from somewhere. “I kept it since I wasn’t sure what they used to affect Geralt in such a way.”

Vesemir nodded in thanks as he took the arrow, eyes narrowed as he examined the dark purple liquid dried upon the top, layered underneath Geralt’s blood. He moved it a bit closer to his face, sniffing it slightly, before growling. 

Geralt glanced up at the sound of Vesemir’s low growl, brow furrowed worriedly at the sound.

“Vesemir, what is it?” he asked quietly, glancing to Yennefer, who had straightened up, also staring at Vesemir with concern. 

“This…this is a decoction that not many know about,” Vesemir growled under his breath. “It was made as a sedative for Witchers, ways that we could sedate our own if their wounds were too great, or if they were just out of control. Other potions, other poisons work for a short while as a sedative…but not like this. This has lingering effects, as it was made to keep a Witcher weak as it stays in their system for longer than the usual poisons and whatnot.”

“Who would know how it make it?” Yennefer questioned, frowning. Vesemir shook his head as he carefully placed the arrow aside. 

“I am not quite sure,” Vesemir admitted, as he glanced at the arrow lying innocently on the table. He’d have to destroy it later. “It could be that Nilfgaard managed to find a copy of the decoction recipe, or someone who had a vial laying around…or they got it from someone who knew the recipe.”

“Like another Witcher?” grunted Geralt, displeased. 

“Could be,” Vesemir muttered. 

“Another Witcher?” Yennefer asked, appalled. “Would one Witcher betray another?”

Vesemir sighed, looking tired and worn. “Not all schools get along with one another. For a long time, the Wolves and the Cats fought against each other. It took Lambert befriending one before that animosity disappeared.”

“But to sink to that level? To help Nilfgaard?” Yennefer questioned, appalled. 

Vesemir gave a bitter, wry smile as he sat down. “Not all Witcher schools are the same. Cats are known to take on assassinations, any job really, as long as they are paid. Vipers are known as kingslayers. Griffins hunt dragons. I’m not saying that we don’t take on the occasional rough, bloody job…but we try to keep to a certain Path. All Witcher schools are taught to follow their own Paths.”

Yennefer didn’t look quite convinced at that, but she said nothing more. She would figure it out later, try and figure out her thoughts.

“Now,” Vesemir murmured, turning his attention back to Geralt. “Tell me why you think you failed Jaskier.”

Geralt looked up at Vesemir, disbelief clouding his face. “I let Nilfgaard get him!” he snarled, fists clenching upon his thighs. “I _swore_ to him that I would not let Nilfgaard get him, that he wouldn’t be caged again! I…I broke my word to him,” he finished, croaking the last part out brokenly as he lowered his head.

Vesemir sighed as he stepped forward, gently grasping Geralt’s chin and tilting his head up. Geralt still kept his eyes turned away though, not meeting Vesemir’s steady gaze. 

“Look at me, Pup,” Vesemir ordered, voice low and calm, but leaving no room for arguments. Reluctantly, but unable to disobey his mentor, Geralt lifted his eyes to meet Vesemir’s. “It is _not_ your fault.”

“It is, Vesemir,” Geralt growled before pausing at the reprimanding look from Vesemir. 

“They knew the way to sedate you, to get you out the way,” Vesemir told him firmly. “No matter what you did, son, there was no way to stop them. I know that Jaskier knows this. I know that he would know that you did all you could to protect him…and that you will save him once again.”

“They shouldn’t have gotten near us in the first place!” Geralt argued, getting another firm headshake from Vesemir. 

“You can’t always control things like that, Geralt,” Vesemir murmured, gently squeezing Geralt’s chin to get his attention. “Even here, away from most civilization, I’ve heard of how far Nilfgaard has gotten into the Continent, how much land, how many kingdoms they’ve conquered. Their reach has extended and they would have spies and scouts everywhere. You know as well as I, that gold is a motivator, especially to those poor and desperate. Anyone could have given your location to Nilfgaard…and really, it was only a matter of time before somebody did.”

Geralt sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “Doesn’t make it easier, Vesemir.”

“No, no, I suppose it doesn’t,” Vesemir agreed with a low sigh. “But you must have faith in your bard, Geralt. He’s strong.”

“He protected me,” Geralt told him, opening his eyes to look at Vesemir. “When I failed, when I collapsed, he took my sword and killed two of the soldiers.”

Vesemir smiled at that. “As I said, he’s strong,” he said, “and he knows that we won’t give up on him. He’s part of our pack, Geralt, remember that?”

Geralt met his gaze before he faltered, pain tearing through his golden eyes.

“How do we find him, Vesemir?” he whispered, voice breaking. “We don’t know where he is!”

“Eskel and Lambert are on their way here,” Vesemir told him, “and I believe Tissaia, Triss and Sabrina are all listening out for any information that might lead us to Jaskier’s location. We all have allies, friends, who can help us. We will send word to them…but in the meantime, you need to recover,” Vesemir ended with a sigh, watching as Geralt swayed slightly even as he sat. “That decoction is going to take a little while to truly get through your system and you’re going to be weakened for a while. You need to rest, to heal…for Jaskier’s sake.”

Geralt faltered at that, finally giving a small nod in agreement.

“Come now,” Vesemir murmured. “Let’s get you to your room so you can rest.”

“Uncle Vesemir?” Ciri’s timid voice called from the doorway. Geralt looked up to her, seeing she was hesitating in the doorway, looking uncertain. She had grown, Geralt had noted, seeing her clothes had been patched and repaired in several places to account for her growth. She had certainly grown, sprouting up in height, and developing muscle from all of her training. Her long ashen hair was tied back tightly into a braid, to keep it out of her face for training. Geralt smiled weakly at her, watching as she shuffled on her feet uncertainly, looking like she wanted to run to him yet was unsure if she should.

He lifted his arm weakly in response, watching as a relieved smile broke out upon her face before she darted towards him, throwing herself down on the bench beside him and wrapping her arms around his waist, burying her face into his shoulder.

“Was so worried about you,” Ciri mumbled into his unwounded shoulder.

“I’m all right, Ciri,” Geralt reassured her as he wrapped his arm around her, holding her close. Ciri just shuddered as she clung on tighter.

“Thought I was going to lose you,” Ciri whimpered. Geralt looked up at Vesemir, who shook his head sadly at that. Geralt looked back to Ciri, sighing sadly as her fingers clutched onto his shirt tightly as though she’d lose him if she let go. He understood why she was so fearful that he had been lost.

She had already lost so much in her life. Geralt was one of the only people she had left, their destinies intertwined...if she lost him too…well, Geralt knew she would have Vesemir and Yennefer to be there for her, but it didn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt any less. Ciri had already been hurt enough in this life.

“I’m here, Ciri, I’m here,” Geralt murmured as he held her closer, gently nuzzling into her hair. 

Ciri sniffled, nodding against his shoulder again.

“Ciri, little Wolf,” Vesemir said quietly, gently touching her shoulder. “Geralt needs to rest.”

Ciri nodded, pulling back from Geralt’s shoulder, eyes a little wet as she smiled shakily at Geralt.

“Yeah, yes, of course,” Ciri stammered, though she paused for a moment, biting her lip as she looked to Geralt. “Geralt…J-Jaskier is going to be okay, right? W-We’re going to get him right back?”

“Of course, little Wolf,” Geralt told her weakly, though it felt like a lie, heavy on his tongue. “We’ll find him.”

“Why don’t you go prepare something for Geralt to eat, hmm?” Vesemir suggested. Usually he would be a bit sterner with the young girl, it was the way to make sure she remained safe, to do what she was told…but he could see how worried she was for Geralt, how scared she was of losing him and Jaskier. It never hurt, nor weakened someone to have some sort of gentleness and care, no matter what the old Witchers may have said once. 

At least this would give her something to do, to keep herself occupied. 

“Sure thing,” Ciri said, getting to her feet, looking relieved at being able to help in some sort of way. 

“I’ll help you,” Yennefer said as she stood up, brushing down her dark skirt. “You can tell me how your studies went while I was away.”

Geralt watched as Ciri and Yennefer walked away, with Ciri taking Yennefer’s hand as they walked away. Yennefer looked to Ciri, smiling at her as they went off together.

“Come on, Pup,” Vesemir sighed, reaching down to help heave Geralt to his feet. “Let’s get you to your room.”

Geralt exhaled at that thought, an empty ache tearing through his chest, knowing that it was his and Jaskier’s room they were heading to…and Jaskier wouldn’t be there.   
He kept that to himself though as he leaned against Vesemir, allowing his mentor to help bear his weight and get him up to the room. 

“I cleaned up a bit when I received Yennefer’s note,” Vesemir informed him as they slowly made their way through the keep. “I did have to move most of Jaskier’s instruments to the library though, there was no space in your room, and they’ll be safe in the library…Lambert never goes in there, so it’s not like they’ll be accidentally broken.”

Geralt couldn’t contain his small snort of laughter at that, especially at Vesemir’s tired, matter of fact tone. A side effect of decades of raising and training Lambert, which had been a very frustrating, difficult task. Vesemir and Lambert clashed often, both of them being so strong willed and stubborn. 

“Here we are,” Vesemir sighed finally as he pushed open the door to Geralt’s room. Geralt looked around his room sadly, spotting Jaskier’s belongings dotted amongst his own here and there. 

“I had to bring in a couple more chests for Jaskier’s clothing,” Vesemir continued as he led Geralt to the bed, taking off the lute case from Geralt’s shoulder, leaning it against the side of the bed, before lowering him down to sit upon it. “Boy has quite an extensive wardrobe.”

Geralt could barely conjure up a weak smile in response to that. Vesemir just sighed, catching onto Geralt’s mood. He sat down beside Geralt on the bed, taking in Geralt’s slumped shoulders and morose eyes, even more morose as he stared upon Jaskier’s things. 

“We’ll get him back, Geralt,” Vesemir assured him, grasping Geralt’s unwounded shoulder. “We’re not giving up on him.”

“I know,” Geralt choked out, hands grasping at the material of his pants. “I just…fuck! He’s _gone_ , Vesemir! They have him a-and you know how he struggled last time, how much they hurt him!” 

“Geralt…” Vesemir tried but Geralt just shook his head, shoulders trembling under Vesemir’s hand. 

“I promised him…I promised him,” Geralt whispered brokenly before burying his face into his hands. “Vesemir, I promised him!”

“Oh, Geralt,” Vesemir sighed, squeezing his shoulder. He stared at Geralt for a moment, watching as Geralt shook and shuddered in a loss of control that Vesemir hadn’t seen from him since he was a child. 

He knew why Geralt was losing control like this, though he didn’t think that Geralt quite understood the real reason why he was losing control. Sure, Geralt had gotten angry at the loss of his brothers after the sacking of Kaer Morhen…but not like this. 

Vesemir wouldn’t say anything to him though, not yet. 

This was a realisation that Geralt had to make for himself. 

“We’re going to find him, Geralt,” Vesemir said again firmly. “Don’t wallow in self-pity, boy, Jaskier deserves more than that.”

Geralt nodded at that, taking in a deep breath before he pulled his face out from his hands, breathing a bit heavier as he tried to regain control of his emotions. 

“Yeah…you’re right,” Geralt grunted finally. “Need to focus on Jaskier and getting him back.”

Vesemir nodded curtly. “No use lingering on the past. We need to focus on our next steps instead.”

Geralt nodded in agreement, taking in a deep steadying breath. Vesemir knew that it wasn’t all that simple though. Geralt would blame himself, holding that blame deep inside him and allowing it to fester…which was why they needed to find Jaskier quickly. 

Geralt sighed, leaning a bit further into Vesemir’s grounding grip. He had promised Vesemir that he would focus on what comes next, not on what had happened…but he couldn’t, not so easily. 

How could he forgive himself? How could he forget that it was because of him that Jaskier had been captured? 

Geralt closed his eyes again, swallowing deeply as he tried to push away Jaskier’s terrified expression from his thoughts. He opened his eyes, pulled from his worrisome thoughts as the door opened and Ciri peered in. 

“I brought some food,” she said.

“Come in, Ciri,” Vesemir said as he let go of Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt barely bit back a sigh, missing the grounding grasp already. Ciri came in, placing the plate down on the bedside table. 

“I’ll come see you later, yeah?” Ciri murmured.

“Of course, little Wolf,” Geralt agreed, smiling weakly at her. Ciri smiled once more at him, reaching out to gently squeeze his hand before she hurried off. Geralt reached over to grab a piece of bread, suddenly realising how hungry he was.

“Geralt,” Vesemir said suddenly. “Where’s your medallion?”

Geralt paused for a moment, hand going to his chest, pressing against the thin material of his shirt, pressing against where his medallion usually sat. He frowned for a moment, faintly recalling the feeling of it being torn up and over his head, the chain catching on a few of his hairs and the pain of the hairs being torn from his scalp. 

He remembered Jaskier yelling for someone to stop.

“One of the Nilfgaardians took it,” Geralt muttered finally, taking his hand away from his chest. “I remember hearing Jaskier yelling at him to stop…but obviously he didn’t listen.”

“Mm,” Vesemir hummed, sounding annoyed. Vesemir always hated that the humans saw the medallions as something valuable, to sell, barter and brag about. They didn’t know, or care, that the medallions were meant to find their way back to other Witchers, for funeral rites once a Witcher had fallen…but it didn’t always happen. Nobody cared when a Witcher died...not any more.

“Well, we’ll forge you a new one once you’re up to it,” Vesemir said quietly. Geralt sighed when Vesemir callused, scarred hand rested on his head. “Eat and rest, Geralt.”

“I’m fine, Vesemir.”

“That’s an order, Pup,” Vesemir told him, voice firm with just a hint of a growl. Geralt immediately bowed his head, submitting to his elder, as years of training taught him to do. It wasn’t something Vesemir did often, exerting that control over the boys, especially these days…only when it was necessary or when they were being particularly stubborn. 

Eskel and Geralt were more likely to listen and comply, having had more years of training and of listening to and obeying their elders, compared to Lambert who was a bit more headstrong and stubborn. 

Vesemir looked down at Geralt once more and nodded. 

“Good,” he murmured, stroking Geralt’s somewhat grimy white hair once. “Rest, son,…and we’ll talk later.”

Geralt nodded, sighing softly. He watched as Vesemir cast a quick Igni at the fireplace before he left the room, leaving Geralt alone in his room, surrounded by his and Jaskier’s things. 

He struggled to get some food down, giving up after a little while, with the food just tasting like ash and being hard to swallow. 

Geralt toed off his boots before he lay down on the bed, rolling onto his side and drawing his legs up slightly. He sighed as he buried his face into the pillow, inhaling deeply.  
He could just pick up the faintest trace of Jaskier’s scent. Flowery and sweet and familiar and warm. 

“Fuck,” Geralt breathed through gritted teeth as he clutched the pillow tighter, pressing it against his face just to inhale more of Jaskier’s familiar, comforting scent. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

He lay there, feeling weak and fatigued from the decoction still working its way through his body, guilt and heartache ripping through him, ripping him apart as he kept his face buried into the pillow, just so he could smell Jaskier.

“Fuck, Jaskier, I’m so sorry,” he breathed out before clenching his eyes closed, his eyes suddenly burning and hot. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Papa Vesemir knows all ;)
> 
> Sorry it's a little bit shorter than usual, but it's been an anxious week...with MRI's, my state going back into serious lock down due to Covid and now needing to wait another week before I find out the result of my MRI and what is going on with my brain...well...yeah...
> 
> But thank you for all your comments, it always, always brightens my day reading them!


	6. Cahir's Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: very slight discussion of suicide here, very vague and very, very brief.

Jaskier slowly blinked open his eyes, sighing heavily when he spotted the unfamiliar canopy above him, bringing back memories of where he truly was. Sighing again, Jaskier rolled onto his side, curling his knees up to his chest under the thick blankets, and reached up to grab the medallion hanging around his neck. He closed his eyes again briefly as he squeezed the medallion, the wolf engraving pressing into his palm, trying to draw strength from it, to calm his racing heart and rolling stomach. 

Swallowing deeply, Jaskier finally opened his eyes and sat up, blankets falling into his lap. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, rubbing the sleep from them, before he looked around the large, silent room. 

He wished he could just close his eyes and go back to sleep, pretending he was anywhere but here…wishing that he was with Geralt, would wake up curled up next to him, limbs entwined, warm and comfortable. 

Jaskier looked up as the door to his lavish cell opened, a servant bustled in, leaving a tray on the low wooden table in front of the couch before she turned and left, as quick as she came. Jaskier sighed once again as he was left alone, silence echoing around him. He slowly turned around in the bed, placing his feet on the floor, on the dark red rug placed under the bed, soft under his bare feet, before standing up. He stretched out his arms, twisting his upper body to work out the kinks before he lowered his arms, sighing again. 

Jaskier slowly padded across the smooth, cool wooden floor over to the vanity, over to the bowl of water there. He paused in front of the wooden vanity, bracing his hands against the elegantly carved wood as he stared into the mirror, at his reflection. 

His brown hair was all mussed and messy from his disturbed sleep, after hours of tossing and turning and fretting. Dark smudges stained the skin beneath his eyes, evidence of his interrupted sleep, framing his exhausted, wary blue eyes. 

Jaskier pushed away from the vanity, not bothering to wash his face or try and fix his hair. There was no point. 

He walked over to the couch, slumping down upon the soft red cushions and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he ran his hands through his hair, restless. He swallowed as he stared at the tray holding his breakfast, stomach twisting and roiling uncomfortably, at the mere thought of eating. Jaskier knew that it was the anxiety that was making him nauseous, that was what prevented him from sleeping for most of the night until exhaustion had finally claimed him. 

The anxiety wasn’t for any reason though, not when he was trapped in a highly fortified palace, filled with armed Nilfgaardian soldiers, who would have no issues hurting him if given the order…and there was no way for him to escape.

Not in a room so high up, with a door that was locked or guarded at all hours.

He reached up to grab the medallion hanging from his neck, squeezing at it once more, before he took in a deep, steadying breath.

Despite feeling anxious, the mere thought of eating making him nauseous, Jaskier knew he couldn’t afford not to eat. He had to keep his strength up in case he did find a way to escape, or for when Geralt came for him. He had to be ready, he had to be strong enough to keep up.

Exhaling, Jaskier released the medallion and leaned forward to grab his breakfast, grimacing when he saw it was some sort of thick porridge. He always hated it, found it bland and gluggy. 

Geralt always knew he hated it too, but sometimes it was all they could get for breakfast in inns, but Geralt would somehow manage to find some honey or sugar or some fruit for Jaskier to add to the porridge, to sweeten it up. 

Jaskier never knew how Geralt did it, how he managed to persuade the inn keepers or the cooks…but there was always something with his breakfast to sweeten it up. 

An ache formed in Jaskier’s chest at that thought, as he thought of his Witcher, the person he trusted and adored the most in this world. Despite their sometimes hard living situations, the occasional shortness of coin, Geralt always, _always_ did what he could to make the situation a bit better. Whether it be with wrangling a hot bath or bartering for sweet pastries or finding a fruit that Jaskier loved, Geralt always managed to do _something_ that lightened the situation.

Jaskier always tried to return the favour as well, playing extra sets in inns to get Geralt a hot bath or those honey cakes that made Geralt’s eyes light up or even get an extra ale or two. 

Sighing, Jaskier pushed those thoughts from his mind. It was no use dwelling on those memories now, not when it hurt so much to remember, to know that they had been separated again. He picked up the bowl instead, sniffing at it suspiciously. He doubted that Nilfgaard would poison him, not after the trouble they went to just to get him, but he still didn’t trust them to not mess with his food in some way.

Content as he could be that they hadn’t added anything untoward in his breakfast, Jaskier picked up the spoon. Jaskier just focused on the motions of eating slowly, making sure the food stayed down. He grimaced in distaste with every bite, sometimes struggling to swallow down the gluggy, tasteless mess, but he did eventually manage to empty two-thirds of the bowl before his stomach protested. 

Jaskier set the bowl, gingerly touching his stomach as it twisted in discomfort. He probably could have eaten more, but it was probably best not to tempt fate especially since he wanted to keep the food down. 

He drew his legs up onto the couch, leaning against a thick, soft black cushion that was tucked in next to the arm of the couch. He absently reached up to play with medallion as he lay there reclined, letting the food settle within his nauseous stomach…and it wasn’t like he could do much else, locked in the room as he was. 

Jaskier stayed there, curled up, as he sunk into his memories, thinking of Geralt, thinking of Ciri, of Yennefer, Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert and Coen…trying to remain hopeful as he thought of them, imagining that they were all coming for him, like they had promised to back when he was first brought to Kaer Morhen after he was first captured. 

He was absently chewing on his thumbnail, lost deeply in those hopeful thoughts, those happier thoughts, when he was pulled from them when the door opened once more. Jaskier looked towards the door, thumbnail still in between his teeth, and froze when he saw who was standing there, hand dropping away from his mouth then as his skipped a beat with fear, body tensing as it prepared for fight or flight. 

“Cahir,” he croaked as he saw the Nilfgaardian Commander standing there, in the open doorway, icy blue eyes fixed firmly on Jaskier.

Cahir straightened up his armour as he was led towards the emperor’s office, trying to remain calm, knowing he would soon be talking to his emperor. He was stopped outside of the door as he was announced, taking that time to take in a deep, steadying breath before he led in. 

He bowed as soon as he laid eyes on Emhyr, who was sitting behind his ornate desk.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Cahir murmured respectfully. “I came as soon I received your summons.”

“You made good time,” Emhyr just said in reply. “I wasn’t expecting you to arrive for another day or so. I wasn’t expecting you to arrive the next morning.”

“I thought haste was better, my Lord,” Cahir responded. 

“Because it involves the bard?” Emhyr questioned silkily, indicating for Cahir to sit. Cahir sat down, frowning slightly. 

“I…because you summoned me, your Excellence,” Cahir answered, confused. “But…yes, I suppose so, since I failed you last time. I wanted to assist in whatever way I could, to make up for my failure.”

Emhyr stared at Cahir for a moment, cool brown eyes examining him closely before he gave a small nod, content with Cahir’s answer. 

“The bard, tell me what observations you made of him when he was your prisoner,” Emhyr ordered as he leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingers together. Cahir frowned as he thought about Jaskier, what to tell the emperor about him that would be important. 

“He’s charismatic,” Cahir started. “He was a lot braver than I expected from a mere bard. I was honestly expecting tears and pleading when I first captured him, but he just fought back, physically and verbally. Despite the threat to his life, he just continued to sass myself and Fringilla to protect the Witcher, who he had had a falling out with.”

“Falling out?” Emhyr questioned curiously. He wasn’t expecting that, he knew that Geralt protected Jaskier no matter what, despite the situation or how annoyed the Witcher was. 

“Yes, apparently they were on some sort of hunt and the Witcher told Jaskier that if life could give him one blessing it would be to take Jaskier off of his hands,” Cahir recited. Emhyr lifted an eyebrow at that, surprised by that. He put that information aside for now, knowing it could be useful for future use. 

“What else?”

“Refused to give up,” Cahir continued. “Was always trying to find a way to escape and attempted it several times, even when he was hurt enough it would have caused him terrible pain to even move. Even when he thought the Witcher wouldn’t come for him, he still held hope that he could get away.”

Emhyr hummed thoughtfully, shifting slightly so he could tap his fingers against the desk top. 

“But he was willing to give up his safety to protect his friends,” Cahir continued. “He attacked me so the mage, Yennefer, would have time to escape.” 

“Hmm,” Emhyr murmured. “What else?”

Cahir hesitated for a moment before he sighed, looking back to Emhyr. “When he found out that he was going to be sent to Nilfgaard, that was when he lost hope. He just shut down…and you’ve seen what he’s like, I’m guessing, that he’s always shifting, always fidgeting, but here…here he was just still, barely moved.”

Emhyr frowned at that, leaning forward. Cahir swallowed before looking back to Emhyr, who was still looking thoughtful.

“There was one of my men who could get through to Jaskier, who Jaskier did trust,” Cahir informed him, watching as Emhyr straightened up slightly, looking curious.

“Who?”

“My medic; Jon,” Cahir explained. “He’s a good medic, who genuinely just wants to help people, and that endeared him to Jaskier. Jon was the one who treated his wounds, who always treated him with kindness. In the end, he was really the one who could get through to Jaskier, to advise how to bring him out of his catatonic state.” 

“Where is Jon now?”

“I brought him with me,” Cahir admitted. “I knew that if you had Jaskier, that you’d need Jon. He trusts Jon and Jon can see when Jaskier’s beginning to spiral, when he begins to panic and feel trapped.”

“Bring him to me,” Emhyr ordered. “I want to talk to him.”

Cahir stood up, bowing once again. “At once, your Majesty.”

Emhyr leaned back again in his chair as Cahir quickly left the room, going to fetch the medic. He did recall the medic from when he and his forces managed to free Nilfgaard from the Usurper’s reign. 

They had just stormed the palace and were making their way through, cutting down all that opposed them and didn’t join his side. Most of the beaten down soldiers and servants joined his forces to take back the palace from the Usurper and his loyal guards and they made their way through the palace, getting closer to finding where that coward Usurper was hiding away.

Emhyr closed his eyes, recalling the moment when they had stormed into the Usurper’s chambers, hoping to find the coward there.

The Usurper hadn’t been…but a young, thin, bruised teenager was, sitting there on a couch, head in hands, red curls hanging limp and greasy around his bruised face, framing empty, lifeless green eyes. 

Emhyr had learnt that the boy had originally been the apprentice of the Royal Healer, but had been forced to take over that role once the original healer had been murdered in front of him. The boy had begged Emhyr not to hurt anyone in the infirmary, that they were just scared and hurt…and that the boy had allowed the Usurper to use and abuse him, preventing the others under his care from being harmed. 

Emhyr hadn’t been sure what to think of him, until the young soldier, Cahir, had come rushing in, relief flooding the boy’s voice when he called out for his friend. Jon, the bruised young healer, had then led Emhyr to the Usurper’s hiding place.

It was then that Emhyr truly realised that the boy was innocent, that he had a big heart and was truly just trying to protect those around him from being harmed, by allowing himself to be used to the Usurper’s whims. 

It was part of the reason why Emhyr had assigned Jon to Cahir’s unit. The boy was fiercely loyal…and Emhyr had been hoping that Cahir would be the one to bring Ciri back, and Jon would have been a kind, caring hand there to help calm Cirilla. 

Alas, it hadn’t been…which had angered Emhyr, but he knew that he would victorious in the end and Cirilla would be brought home. 

He looked up as the door opened, a nervous Jon coming in, following Cahir. Jon bowed down low as soon as he was in.

“Cahir, leave us,” Emhyr ordered before smirking. “Go see the bard, perhaps you can get him to talk…but no injuries.”

Cahir bowed down low, exchanging one last look with Jon before he turned and left the room.

“Sit,” Emhyr ordered the nervous healer. Jon sat down, running a nervous hand through his red curls, trying to tame them a little, as he looked to Emhyr. 

“I-It is an honour to see you again, your Majesty,” Jon stammered. Emhyr just nodded in reply as his cold brown eyes took in the nervous medic. He was clearly looking a lot better than he had when Emhyr had first met him. The red curls were vibrant and bouncy, out of control almost…and the green eyes had light within them once again. 

“Tell me what you know about Jaskier,” Emhyr stated, cutting directly to the chase. “Cahir said that you treated him, tell me what you observed about him.”

“He’s nervous,” Jon started quietly. “He’s not afraid when it comes to placing others above his own safety, but it doesn’t mean that he’s not afraid for himself, for his future.”

“Tell me examples.”

“Jaskier panicked when Cahir threatened to burn his hand,” Jon admitted, though his cast eyes downwards, feeling guilty that he was giving away Jaskier’s weaknesses…but also knowing he couldn’t hold back on his emperor. “He exhibits nervous behaviour, anxiety disorders…especially when it comes to having his hands injured, since that is part of his trade and livelihood, or when it comes to the idea that his freedom will be taken away, that he will be caged.”

Emhyr frowned at that, leaning forward as he pressed his fingers together thoughtfully. 

“So if he feels _'caged'_ , how does he react?”

“When he found out that he was to be sent to Nilfgaard, he completely shut down, began to become catatonic,” Jon explained. “It was like he gave up all hope, refused to move, and he could barely be coaxed to eat. He basically gave up all hope and shut down.”

Emhyr frowned at that, sitting back once again. Now that wouldn’t do. 

“If he felt trapped,” Emhyr said slowly, carefully. “Would he go as far to try and…end it, to free himself?”

Jon hesitated, frowning. “It is a possibility,” he admitted, “but with Jaskier and his personality, I don’t think he would. I think he’d just give up and would lose all that makes Jaskier, well, _Jaskier_.”

“Hmm,” Emhyr hummed. That still wouldn’t do. He needed Jaskier in relatively one piece, and that meant emotionally, mentally and physically. “What would you suggest I do to prevent Jaskier becoming catatonic?”

Jon sighed, running a hand through his hair again, messing up the curls. 

“I’d suggest giving him a role to do,” Jon said carefully. “Keeping him locked up with only his thoughts will only cause him to spiral quicker, but if he had something to do, to keep his thoughts occupied for a while, well…it might make him feel less caged.”

Emhyr raised an eyebrow at that. “Like what?”

Jon hesitated for a moment, thinking. “Maybe make him your bard? I did notice that he loses himself in the music, draws comfort from it. I-I am not sure of the reason of why you would want him here in the first place, but I’m just a medic, not a strategist…but giving him a role, something not really involved in politics, might give him some sense of purpose.”

Emhyr smirked slightly at Jon. He knew what Jon was trying to do, trying to figure out why Jaskier was hunted so, but he was smart enough not to outright ask it.

“I need Jaskier in relatively one piece, emotionally, physically and mentally,” Emhyr told Jon. “I believe he knows where Cirilla is…and once I do get her, to bring her to Nilfgaard, he will be useful in keeping her here.”

Jon frowned at that, tilting his head as he looked at Emhyr. “So he knows where Cirilla is,” Jon murmured, more to himself. “Does that mean Cirilla knows him?”

“He’s known her her whole life,” Emhyr admitted. He needed Jon to trust him on this so he could help Emhyr. “Jaskier is also a kind person. He will do all he can to protect Ciri, become her trusted friend…and he will be what keeps her here. She behaves and he remains safe.”

Jon barely held back a wince at that. He hated anything where people could potentially get hurt. 

Instead, he just bowed his head. “Thank you for trusting me with that, my Lord. It will not leave this room.”

Emhyr looked at Jon, considering for a moment. “I want you to remain here, Jon, to keep an eye on Jaskier, to ensure his mental and physical wellbeing. He trusts you and I know that you will do all you can to help him, it’s just the type of medic you are.”

Jon nodded, straightening up. “Of course, sir, I’d be honoured to help in any way I can.”

“Good,” Emhyr said, nodding curtly. “If he says anything about the Witcher, anything about Cirilla, you are to inform me.”

“Of course,” Jon agreed, before hesitating once again. “Sir, if I’m not being too forward…but why wasn’t the Witcher brought back here as well when you found Jaskier? I mean, he’d know where Cirilla is.”

Emhyr gave a low, dark chuckle at that. “Yes, I have no doubt that Geralt knows where Cirilla is…but I also know how stubborn and fiercely loyal that Witcher is. If we brought him here, he would be stubborn and refuse to speak no matter what techniques we used on him. I know he cares for the bard though and knowing that Jaskier is in danger will cause him to act, to mess up in some way in his desperation. Whether it be trying to move Cirilla to a safer location, or attempting to use Cirilla to get Jaskier’s location. He will try something, despite the rumours that Witchers are emotionless, I know that when it comes to the bard that this Witcher is not.”

Jon blinked, surprised by that…and by the fact that the emperor had actually told him all of this information. Emhyr just cocked his head to the side, a smugness within his brown eyes.

He knew exactly what game he was playing with trusting Jon with this, knowing Jon wouldn’t betray him, not after everything he had done. By trusting Jon with this, it was showing Jon that Emhyr trusted him to a degree…and Jon wouldn’t betray that.

“T-Thank you for trusting me, Sire,” Jon just murmured. “I will do my utmost best to ensure that Jaskier is kept from going catatonic, but I do believe there will be anxiety episodes…and I will inform you immediately if he lets any information slip about Cirilla and her location.”

Emhyr nodded. “Good. I will think of a role that Jaskier could fill so he feels less caged but still something out of the way.”

Jon nodded and stood up, knowing he was being dismissed. 

“Go see him, make sure Cahir hasn’t freaked him out too much,” Emhyr ordered dismissively. 

“Of course, your Majesty,” Jon said, bowing low.

“And remember, our conversation remains private,” Emhyr warned him, a threat hidden in his words. “My enemies do not need to know about Jaskier and his ties to Cirilla.”

“Of course, my Emperor,” Jon demurred, bowing again before he turned and left the room at the dismissive hand wave. His heart thudded in his chest as he left the emperor’s office, breathing in deeply, trying to calm himself. 

He trusted the emperor, after all, he did save Jon’s life…he saved Cahir’s life and the lives of all Nilfgaardians from the Usurper’s torment. 

But it didn’t make the fact that knowing Jaskier was here, a captive, any easier. He only hoped that the emperor didn’t try to take Jaskier back to Nilfgaard…or he’d have to do something drastic.

Jaskier got to his feet, eyes still fixed on Cahir, who was standing in the doorway.

“Cahir,” he croaked again, back away as Cahir entered the room. “W-What are you doing here?”

Cahir took a step forward, eyes on the panicked bard, dressed in loose black Nilfgaardian lounge clothing, the bard’s bare feet not making a sound against the soft rugs on the floor as he backed away from Cahir.

Cahir just continued to walk forward, stalking Jaskier until he was pressed back against the wooden bed post, trembling and breath catching fearfully as Cahir boxed him in. 

“I told you that you wouldn’t get away,” Cahir murmured as he grabbed Jaskier’s chin, tilting Jaskier’s head up ever so slightly so he could meet those fearful blue eyes. 

“I did though,” Jaskier retorted, trying to appear confident. “I spent a year running from you.”

“Still,” Cahir murmured, his slightly bulkier body boxing in Jaskier’s, leaving the bard unable to escape. “We got you in the end...and you’ll _shine_ as part of Nilfgaard.”

Jaskier shook his head firmly at that. “No,” he said, though his voice wavered. “I-I won’t…I’m going to get out…Geralt will come for me!” 

Cahir’s eyes darted down towards the medallion hanging around Jaskier’s neck, scowling slightly.

“The Witcher will die in any attempt to save you,” he said instead, drawing his gaze up to meet Jaskier’s once again. “I do not know what our emperor has planned for you, but this is your new life, Jaskier. Embrace it…who knows, you may become Nilfgaard’s shining jewel, our beloved bard.”

Jaskier just shook his head again, before resolutely turning his head away to the side as Cahir leaned closer, refusing to look at him.

“It doesn’t have to be a prison sentence,” Cahir murmured, close enough that his lips brushed Jaskier’s cheek. “You could have a life here, if you submit.”

“I won’t,” Jaskier gasped out, hands gripping the bed pole so tightly behind him that his knuckles went white. “I won’t be caged!” 

“We’ll see,” Cahir just murmured again, pulling back slightly and running the tips of his index and middle finger lightly down the side of Jaskier’s head, through the soft brown locks, down the sharp cheekbone and towards his chin. “We’ll see.”

Cahir stepped back further away from Jaskier, watching as Jaskier sunk to the floor, shaking legs unable to hold him up any more. He watched as Jaskier drew his knees to his chest, curling up into a tight, protective ball, as harsh gasps broke free of Jaskier’s control. 

Jaskier tucked his face into his legs, feeling the hot sting of panicked tears burning in his eyes and not wanting Cahir to see. His heart was racing in his chest, pounding in his ears, and yet he felt frozen and small, like he couldn’t fight back.

“I’ll be around, Jaskier,” Cahir’s voice said, causing Jaskier to shudder again. “Perhaps this time I can finally figure you out. We do have time to spare after all.”

He peeked out of his protective curl when he heard footsteps receding from his position, seeing Cahir walking towards the door. He watched as Cahir left the room, the heavy door closing behind him, before he hid his face away again, allowing the panicked, frightened sobs to finally break free.

He didn’t want to submit. He didn’t want to be caged. He didn’t want to break!

Jaskier curled up tighter, muffling his sobs against his arm. 

He wanted Geralt. He wanted to be back in Kaer Morhen, surrounded by the loud, brash yet kind Witchers. He wanted to discuss philosophies with Vesemir, to verbally spar with Lambert and discuss literature with Eskel. He wanted to tell stories to Ciri and exchange playful barbs with Yennefer. He wanted to be curled up safe and secure with Geralt.

Jaskier gave another sob, body trembling.

He just wanted to be free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd the return of creepy Cahir >.<
> 
> So, on the health front...I'm actually going good...MRI turned up clear, so my brain just got a bit rattled from my illness and the speech/memory issues should settle down within six months, so that's a huuuge relief :D annnd I finished the first module of my course, yay! :P  
> Thanks to everyone for your well wishes and comments, they've really helped when I felt the lowest lately xx


	7. Jon

Jaskier startled, jerking back and smacking the back of his head against the wooden bed frame, when a hand rested on his shoulder.

“Shh, Jaskier, calm, calm, it’s okay,” a familiar voice soothed him quickly, a gentle hand checking the back of Jaskier’s head, fingers softly teasing through the hair and feeling for any cuts or bumps. Jaskier blinked open his eyes, blinking away the tears that clouded his vision when he saw a mop of red curls in front of him.

“J-Jon?” he whispered, voice shaking as his vision finally cleared enough for him to see the healer. Jon smiled sadly at him as he pulled away, content that Jaskier hadn’t hurt his head, only giving it a small bump. 

“Yes, Jaskier,” Jon murmured in return as he settled down to sit on the floor in front of the pale bard. “It’s me. I’m here…and it looks like you’ve seen Cahir, hmm?”

Jaskier’s bottom lip trembled at that, breathing catching in his throat, heart racing in his chest as new, renewed, frightened tears burned his eyes. A sob escaped his throat and he fell forward, burying his head against Jon’s shoulder.

He knew he shouldn’t trust him, that Jon was Nilfgaardian, loyal to those who held him captive…but something inside him just screamed that Jon was his friend, that he wouldn’t hurt him. 

Jon wrapped his arms around Jaskier, holding him close, murmuring comforting words to him as he rubbed Jaskier’s back through the thin shirt. 

“I know, I know,” Jon murmured as he rocked Jaskier side-to-side slightly, letting Jaskier sob out his fear and panic against his shoulder. “It’s all right, Jaskier, just let it out.”  
Jaskier just shook his head against Jon’s shoulder, clutching onto Jon’s shirt tightly. 

“It’s okay to be afraid, Jaskier,” Jon told him quietly. “It’s okay to be upset, to feel anxious or fearful…this isn’t an easy situation for you.”

Jaskier pulled away from Jon at that, knowing that Jon couldn’t really understand. He shuddered, pulling his knees close to his chest again, making Jon smile at him sadly. 

“I-I fought back against the Nilfgaardian soldiers that came for me…I even managed to kill two of them!” Jaskier croaked, shaking his head. “But the moment I see Cahir, I freeze…and I feel weak, I feel useless, like I-I can’t win!” 

Jon nodded at that as he shifted slightly closer to Jaskier, reaching out to gently grasp Jaskier’s knee, squeezing gently. 

“When you were found by the soldiers, were you fighting for your freedom…or for something else?” Jon questioned carefully, watching as Jaskier sniffled, rubbing at his tearstained eyes before he looked to Jon questioningly. Jon just looked at him, green eyes reassuring before continuing carefully, “I heard that your Witcher, Geralt, was with you when you were captured. Were you able to get over your fear for him?”

Jaskier went silent for a moment, mouth opening and closing as he tried to figure out what to say.

“Yes,” he finally whispered, closing his eyes momentarily and hugging his knees tighter. “He couldn’t fight a-and I couldn’t let them hurt him.” 

Jon nodded again in understanding. “So you were able to get over your fear for him,” he murmured. 

Jaskier shivered again, looking uncertain, even as he hugged his knees tighter.

“Couldn’t let them hurt him,” he just mumbled instead. 

“And that's the reason why Cahir made you react so,” Jon explained gently, squeezing Jaskier’s knee reassuringly again. “You were so hurt last time, both physically and emotionally…and you lost hope, fearing what would happen to your future. It is no wonder that seeing Cahir made you freeze, made you remember those things.”

Jaskier sighed, feeling exhausted all of a sudden, and leaned his head back to rest against the wooden bedframe. He reached up to grab at the medallion, which caught Jon’s attention. 

“Is that your Witcher’s?” he asked quietly, nodding to the medallion. Jaskier glanced down at the medallion in his hand, rubbing his thumb across the wolf engraving. He gave a small nod, even as his heart gave a pang, giving a sad smile as he looked at Geralt’s medallion.

“Yes,” he admitted. “The…the Emperor let me have it after his captain stole it from Geralt.” 

“Ah,” Jon murmured. Jaskier sighed again, head rolling tiredly on his neck as he looked back to Jon. He looked at Jon, who was still sitting right in front of him, cross legged on the floor, staring at him with concerned, caring green eyes. 

“What are you doing here, Jon?” Jaskier asked him tiredly. “Aren’t you meant to be on the battlefield?”

“Well, there isn’t really much of a battlefield at the moment,” Jon said, lips twitching up in amusement. “We can’t really go much further than Temeria at the moment with Redania’s army waiting for us…and they have substantial numbers, especially since Radovid has just claimed Kaedwen as part of his kingdom too.”

“Didn’t hear about that,” Jaskier murmured, wincing as he thought of Kaer Morhen, which was situated in Kaedwen’s territory. He knew that an army couldn’t get up that mountain trail to the old keep, it was too treacherous for those who didn’t know the path and the terrain. 

“It’s recent…and Radovid has kept it somewhat quiet,” Jon informed him as he leaned back on his hands. “And as for what I’m doing here, well, I’ve been assigned to look after you.”

Jaskier smiled weakly at that. He’d like to make some sort of joke at that…but really, he was relieved that he’d at least have Jon. Even though Jon was Nilfgaardian, he truly had a good heart, just wanting to look after people, so Jaskier knew that despite everything that Jon wouldn’t hurt him, not intentionally. 

“Well, at least you have better bedside manners then the one who treated me last night,” Jaskier joked weakly. Jon straightened up at that, brow furrowing.

“Wait, you were hurt?” Jon asked seriously. “Where? Who treated you? Let me see!” 

Jaskier barely bit back a sigh as Jon stood up, ushering Jaskier to his feet. Jon’s concerned green eyes scanned Jaskier up and down critically, as though he could see where Jaskier was injured.

“Where were you injured, Jaskier?” Jon asked him, a furrow on his brow. Jaskier sighed, seeing the concern in Jon’s green eyes, before he caved.

“My upper thigh,” Jaskier admitted, indicating to his leg. “I was cut with a sword.”

“Pants off then,” Jon ordered him. “Let me see. I want to make sure he treated it correctly.”

Jaskier nodded, sighing softly, before he complied. He knew Jon would fuss and worry if he didn’t. 

“Thank you,” Jon smiled thankfully at him as Jaskier took off his pants, sitting on the bed in just his smallclothes, revealing the bandage wrapped tightly around his upper thigh. Jon was gentle and careful as he unwrapped the bandage, clicking his tongue as he looked over the treated wound with a critical eye. 

“Did he treat it right?” Jaskier asked him.

Jon just hummed, an errant red curl falling into his face as he leaned over Jaskier, carefully poking at the edges of the wound. 

“It’s passable,” Jon told him finally before he straightened up, heading over to the couch where he had placed his satchel once he had seen Jaskier curled up on the floor in the midst of a panic attack. “But there are some things he could have done better. Better salves he could use to prevent infection.”

Jaskier winced as Jon carefully cleaned the wound, dabbing it carefully with a damp cloth before he applied a salve to the stitched wound as gently as possible. Jaskier let out the breath he didn’t realise he was holding, falling back onto his elbows as Jon gently rewrapped his thigh with clean bandages. 

“That’s better,” Jon murmured once he knotted off the bandage and stepped back, smiling at Jaskier. “I’ll check the wound in a day or so, but I’d try to keep it from getting wet if possible.”

Jaskier nodded tiredly, grabbing his pants, sighing at the drab black cotton pants before pulling them on. He shifted on the bed so he was leaning against the pillows, rubbing his eyes tiredly before looking at Jon, who had moved to sit on the end of the bed, kicking off his boots before he pulled his own legs up on the bed, turning to face Jaskier as he crossed his legs, leaning his elbows against his knees, resting his chin on his hands as he looked to the tired looking Jaskier, who stared back at him from where he was leaning against the headboard. 

“So,” Jaskier murmured, sighing heavily. “What’s the plan for me then?”

Jon sighed in return and shook his head. “I truly don’t know all of the details,” Jon admitted truthfully. “I believe it will be similar to last time, where you are just used to get the Witcher to hand over Princess Cirilla.”

Jaskier shook his head at that, a bitter, rueful smile pulling at his lips. 

“Great,” he muttered, hands clenching in his lap. “Always fun being used as blackmail.”

Jon laughed softly at that, watching as Jaskier’s eyes drifted close tiredly, the bard emotionally exhausted. 

“I don’t want to be here,” Jaskier spoke up, voice quiet as he opened his eyes to look at Jon. “I-I can’t do this again. I just want to go home.”

Jon sighed at that. “I know, Jaskier, I know,” he murmured sympathetically. “I know there isn’t much I can say to reassure you, to comfort you, not in a situation like this…but I’ll be here to help you, to keep you company when you need it. But you also shouldn’t give up hope.”

Jaskier’s face screwed up in disbelief at that, blue eyes staring at Jon as though he was mad. 

“The last time, you believed that Geralt wouldn’t come for you, that he wouldn’t care…but in the end, he did come for you,” Jon explained gently. “He spent this last year protecting you, keeping you by his side. That doesn’t sound like a man who would give up on getting you back,” Jon paused, tilting his head as he examined Jaskier. “Especially since you said you wanted to go home.”

Jaskier just blinked at that, unsure of what to say. Jon just smiled easily at him as he leaned back, running a hand through his curls once again.

“Last time you told me you didn’t have a home, that you didn’t know where home was…but it sounds like you found it,” Jon told him with a sad smile. 

Jaskier stared at Jon, seeing the care and sadness within those green eyes and found himself lost for words. It was true, last time he had told Jon that he didn’t have a place to call home. The closest he had felt to having a home was when he travelling with Geralt…and that was still true. But being at Kaer Morhen, spending time with Geralt at his home, with his family, well, it had given Jaskier a chance to see what family and home _truly_ was. Geralt was his family, was his home…and so was Kaer Morhen and Vesemir and Lambert and Eskel. 

He had truly found his home, his family, because of Geralt. 

But he knew, that even when they weren’t at Kaer Morhen, even when they didn’t see Lambert or Eskel or Vesemir for months at a time, that just being Geralt was home enough.  
Geralt was his home. 

Jaskier swallowed at that realisation, picking up the medallion once again, something he’d done dozens of times over the last day, and looking at the familiar engraving. He’d spent years, decades, staring at this medallion as it hung around Geralt’s neck, poking and prodding the surly Witcher with questions about it. He was always curious as to why Geralt never took it off, no matter the situation. Geralt had finally relented, telling Jaskier of the medallion and its purpose…but also its meaning. It tied him to the Witcher school, the only family he had. 

He wore it in the hope that if he did die that it would be returned to Vesemir, so that Vesemir would have closure and not be left wondering about what happened to him. 

It was also something that was _his_ , something he had forged once he had become a full Witcher. It showed he survived the Trials and all of the horrors that came with them.

“Yeah,” Jaskier murmured finally, voice quiet and morose. “Suppose I did.”

Jon didn’t reply to that. He didn’t know what to say to help Jaskier, to make him feel better. In this situation, there really wasn’t any words. He remained sitting there at the end of the bed, quiet as he watched Jaskier, just being a reassuring presence for the despondent bard. He watched as the emotional upheaval from Cahir’s unexpected visit, and just the fear and uncertainty of being a captive, finally got to Jaskier, the bard’s eyes slowly closing, body slumping back further into the pillows. 

Jon moved at that, carefully slipping off of the bed and standing up. Jaskier cracked open his eyes tiredly, the exhausted blue gaze fixed on Jon as Jon pulled his boots on.

“Jon?” Jaskier mumbled tiredly. Jon turned to him, smiling reassuringly.

“It’s all right,” he soothed him, moving over to Jaskier’s side, grabbing the thick blanket and pulling it up and over Jaskier, tucking the exhausted bard in comfortably. “Just rest, okay? I’ll be back a bit later to see you.”

Jaskier’s face pulled into a confused frown as he turned his head towards Jon, even as he curled up tighter under the blankets.

“You’ll come back?” he asked, voice small.

“Of course, Jaskier,” Jon promised. “You just need to get some rest…and I need to find the room I’m staying in and get unpacked.”

“’Kay,” Jaskier yawned, eyes finally drifting closed, snuggling up further under the blankets. Jon watched him for a moment more, watching as the tension eased from Jaskier’s body and his breathing became steady and even.

With quiet steps, Jon picked up his medical bag and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He nodded to the guards who stood opposite Jaskier’s door, who nodded back, before he went to search out Mererid. 

It was time for him to get settled in, to prepare what he needed to help Jaskier come to terms with his imprisonment…and to make sure Cahir didn’t cause Jaskier to spiral into a panic attack again. 

Mererid had looked at him in amusement when Jon had come, seeking a room, stating that he was there to be Jaskier’s caretaker on the emperor’s orders. Mererid, being the professional he was, took it in stride and found a decent room placed in the same hall of Jaskier’s room. 

He sighed as he looked around the room, placing his bag of clothes down on the bed, next to his medical bag. Jon glanced towards the door as it opened, seeing Cahir stroll in, pausing momentarily as he took in the nice room.

“Huh, you got a nice room,” Cahir stated as he walked further in, sitting down as he watched Jon unpack his bags. 

“It’s near enough to Jaskier,” Jon answered absently. “The emperor wants me near to him at all times, just in case.”

“Huh,” Cahir muttered as he leaned back on his hands, watching as Jon moved about the room, getting settled in. 

“You need to be careful with him,” Jon warned, glanced at his friend and commander. “Our emperor needs him…and we can’t afford to have Jaskier shut down on us like he did last time.”

Cahir straightened up at that, looking at Jon in disbelief. “You know why the emperor wants him.” 

Jon just looked at him, green eyes piercing, lips pursed unhappily at Cahir’s question.

“Same as last time,” Jon just answered simply. “Jaskier is used to get the Witcher to hand over Cirilla.”

“That just can’t be it,” Cahir countered, eyes narrowing suspiciously as he looked to Jon. “What else do you know?”

“Cahir,” Jon hissed. “You can’t just ask me that!”

“C’mon, Jon,” Cahir sighed, leaning forward. “You know that I won’t say anything else…but I could help if I knew more about what’s going on. If I don’t know, I might accidentally do something or say something that makes things worse with Jaskier.”

Jon scowled at him briefly before sighing, shaking his head in defeat.

“Fine, but only the basics,” he muttered as he sat down beside Cahir on the bed.

“Nothing more,” Cahir promised. “Nothing that will get you in trouble.”

“Besides Jaskier being used to bring Cirilla out of hiding,” Jon started slowly. “Our Emperor is planning to use him once Cirilla is found.”

“How?”

Jon shook his head, uncertain. “He believes that Jaskier and Cirilla know each other and that Jaskier will be the key to keeping Cirilla in Nilfgaard.”

“Because of his nature,” Cahir murmured in understanding. “Jaskier is kind-hearted, he will protect Cirilla…and in return Cirilla will do what she can to protect him, like stay in Nilfgaard and do whatever it is our emperor wants from her.”

Jon nodded, exhaling softly as he leaned back. Cahir watched him, frowning slightly.

“I won’t say anything, you know I won’t,” Cahir promised him quietly. “And I’ll be careful around Jaskier, though our emperor does believe that I might be able to get him to talk or say something of interest.”

Jon smiled weakly at that. “I know you won’t…but I fear we have a task ahead of us, both with trying to get Jaskier to tell us where Cirilla is and with keeping Jaskier from spiralling.”

“It will be fine,” Cahir assured him. “Things will work out, Jon.”

“I hope so,” Jon sighed, burying his head tiredly in his hands. “Gods, I hope so.”

Geralt slowly blinked his eyes open, staring up at the stone ceiling above him. Sighing, Geralt rolled onto his side, looking out the window towards the mountains, watching as the sun slowly rose higher into the sky. 

Sighing again, Geralt pushed himself up into a seating position, staring out over his room, eyes moving over the belongings packed in the room, on the shelves, in chests, a mixture of his and Jaskier’s things. 

Shaking his head, Geralt pushed those thoughts away before they became too morose and climbed out of the warmth of the bed. He moved towards the bags, which Ciri brought up, digging through them to find some fresh clothes. He paused when he saw something glint and carefully reached in, grabbing the object carefully and bringing it out into the daylight.

Geralt stared down at the dagger resting across his palm, his slow heart beat skipping a beat at the sight of it. Reaching up, Geralt ran trembling fingers down the flower engravings on the hilt, fingers lingering on the buttercups and dandelion engravings. 

He had given this to Jaskier as a promise that he wouldn’t cage Jaskier, that they’d still go out and travel the Path together…never separated. 

“I’m going to find you, Jaskier,” Geralt swore to the dagger, as though he was talking to Jaskier, as though Jaskier would be able to hear him. “I will find you and bring you home.”

Standing up, Geralt placed the dagger aside for now as he finished getting dressed before finding a small sheath for the dagger, one that had been lying on the shelves, and carefully put the dagger inside, making sure it was secure, before tucking it into his boot. Geralt shifted his foot slightly, feeling the slight weight of the dagger and the press of it against the side of his shin, a constant reminder…a silent promise to Jaskier, to return that dagger to him. 

Sighing again, Geralt slowly made his way out of his room and towards the small hall, stopping every now and again as his vision swam. 

Finally he made his way into small hall, seeing Vesemir was already sitting there, reading. He lifted his head when he heard Geralt walk in, wearing his usual black pants but a loose dark blue shirt with shiny black buttons up the left side of the chest, which Vesemir didn’t recognise.

“Nice shirt,” Vesemir said in lieu of greeting, watching as Geralt slowly and carefully sat down, looking a bit paler than usual, breathing a bit more laboured. “Don’t think I’ve seen that one before. Blue isn’t usually a colour you go for.”

Geralt’s lips twitched up slightly at the corners at that. “Jaskier got it for me,” he admitted quietly, reaching out for a mug of water. “We were in some town, I’d just finished a hunt and Jaskier had been quite popular amongst the villagers, earning himself quite a bit of coin from his music. So, naturally, he had to go shopping for new outfits.”

“Naturally,” Vesemir chuckled as he pushed over a plate of fresh bread and fruit preserves for Geralt. 

“He saw this shirt and thought it was me, wouldn’t stop insisting on buying it…and I can’t say no to that damn wide-eyed, pouty face he does when he wants to get his way,” Geralt finished with a rough chuckle. 

“Suits you,” Vesemir told him with a sad smile, seeing the pain flash through Geralt’s amber eyes at the story of the bard, of the happy memory the two of them had together. “Despite his outlandish, bright outfits, he does have good taste when it comes to clothes.”

Geralt snorted at that, shaking his head. “Don’t let Jaskier hear that.”

Vesemir just smiled slightly, watching as Geralt slowly ate his breakfast.

“Did you sleep well?” Vesemir questioned him once he had finished. “You slept for most of the day and all through the night. I could barely keep Ciri from checking on you every hour.”

“Yeah,” Geralt murmured, fidgeting slightly with his plate, which caught Vesemir’s attention. “Guess I was more tired than I thought.”

“You’ll be feeling these effects for a while, Geralt,” Vesemir informed him, pulling his gaze away from Geralt’s fidgeting hands. “Part of the sedative used on you.”

“It’s maddening,” Geralt snarled under his breath, hands bunching into fists. “I should be out there looking for Jaskier!”

“And we will get there,” Vesemir said, voice even and calm like always. “We just can’t go rushing out there, not when we don’t know where he is. It will just put us all at risk…put Ciri at risk.”

Geralt growled under his breath, knowing Vesemir was right. Jaskier would hate it if he put Ciri at risk because of his carelessness. 

“So what do we do?” Geralt asked, almost desperately as he looked to Vesemir pleadingly. “What do we do?!”

“We prepare,” Vesemir answered calmly. “Yennefer has gone to fetch your brothers, to portal them back so we don’t need to wait for their return. When they arrive, we’ll start planning, start contacting who we know, who would help us, and we find out where Jaskier might be being held. Once we know where he is, we will go for him. We will bring our newest Wolf home where he belongs.”

Geralt sighed, resting his head on the solid, scarred wooden table tiredly. 

“How long, Vesemir?” he whispered against the table, knowing that Vesemir’s keen ears would hear him. “How long will Jaskier need to suffer?”

“Hopefully not too long,” Vesemir replied, gnarled hand reaching out to rest on the back of Geralt’s neck comfortingly. “Once your brothers get here, we can truly start planning.”

Sighing again, Geralt closed his eyes, letting Vesemir’s hand on the back of his neck ground him.

He only hoped Yennefer brought his brothers back quickly. He needed to be doing something, to be planning, so he didn’t feel so useless, just sitting here while Jaskier was somewhere out there. 

He just wanted to bring Jaskier home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next one!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! You've all gone a bit quiet on me lately :P Let me know if you're liking it...and I kind of hope I'm writing Emhyr correctly, I haven't really had much experience with him yet with the game...


	8. Worries

Jon stood in front of his emperor, who sat in his usual place behind his desk, standing in parade rest with his hands resting at the small of his back. Emhyr leaned forward, pressing his fingers together as he regarded the healer.

“Well, Jon, you’ve spent a few days with the bard,” Emhyr said slowly, staring intently at Jon. “How is Jaskier going? Have you learnt anything?”

Jon shook his head, red curls bouncing with the movement. “He’s been quite tight-lipped about a lot of things. He speaks of his Witcher, but not of where they rest where they disappear for a few months at a time. He has absently alluded to other Witchers, but he catches himself before he says anything more about them.”

Emhyr frowned at that. It was irksome that they hadn’t learnt anything new about Cirilla or her location, but at the same time, he had expected that of Jaskier. The bard was stubborn and loyal to a fault. 

“Mm,” Emhyr just hummed, watching as Jon straightened up, back tightening up. “What about Jaskier himself? Has he spiralled?”

“Not yet,” Jon answered, sounding a bit relieved. “He’s still remaining hopeful, for either a rescue or an escape. I can see him thinking, trying to figure out some way, which is good in a way since it shows he hasn’t given up…but part of him also knows that trying anything currently will be foolish.”

Emhyr nodded again at that. “Anything else?” 

Jon hesitated for a moment, shifting on his feet. “Cahir has caused him to have a panic attack, but I also believe that was partly just due to the emotional upheaval of being here and the worry he has for the Witcher…and then there’s the matter of his clothing.”

“His clothing,” Emhyr repeatedly incredulously, staring at Jon in disbelief. Jon gave a small, uncertain nod.

“I’ve noticed him looking at his clothes, looking a bit forlorn in them, and I know it’s because the clothes are fully black,” Jon said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “The black clothes wash Jaskier out, make him feel, well, hopeless and depressed. Jaskier usually wears bright, colourful clothes – sometimes a little too garish on the eyes – but it reflects his personality. He likes to bring light and colour to the world, that’s his personality.”

“What are you suggesting for him?” Emhyr just asked instead, gaze unerringly fixed on Jon’s face. 

“Add some colour to his clothing, if possible,” Jon suggested hesitantly. “Nothing too bright or garish of course, that’s not really Nilfgaardian, but some colour…a dark blue or red perhaps.”

Emhyr hummed thoughtfully at that, leaning back. He recalled Jaskier in the deep gold outfit at Pavetta’s betrothal. That colour wasn’t too garish…and he understood what Jon was saying. Colours suited Jaskier’s bright personality…and if adding some sort of colour to Jaskier’s clothing helped prevent him from spiralling, then it would worth it. He did need Jaskier to be in a relatively good condition. 

“Anything else?” Emhyr questioned. 

Jon hesitated once again before steeling himself, taking in a deep breath. “Sir, I was just wondering if you had thought anymore about our previous conversation, about finding something to keep Jaskier occupied.”

“I’ve decided he will be our court bard,” Emhyr said, smirking. “It’d be a waste to let a talent like his go unused…and once word spreads that the famed Jaskier the Bard is performing in Nilfgaard’s courts, well, it might work in our favour.”

Jon blinked, surprised at that, before inclining his head. Emhyr frowned, a thought suddenly coming to mind.

“What would you say, professionally, about trying to assimilate Jaskier to Nilfgaardian history and customs?” Emhyr questioned curiously. “Would that help him settle into his place?”

Jon frowned at that, considering it before finally answering, “It could, but at the same time, it could also make him fight harder. Perhaps starting small, giving him books to read to occupy his time that are about Nilfgaard, would be the best way to see if it this could potentially work.”

Emhyr clasped his hands together at that, content with that answer. It was something he could work with. It would useful to have Jaskier content with his new place in Nilfgaard before Ciri arrived. He could help her settle in to her role, into her true home. 

“We’ll work on that then,” Emhyr said quietly, thoughtfully, fingers pressing together. “It will make things easier.”

Jon looked confused, but gave a small nod anyway in agreement. “I can source books, try to ease him into reading it so he isn’t too suspicious, Sir.”

“Good, do that,” Emhyr said firmly. “I will speak to him later tonight and inform him of his new role.”

Jon blinked at that, startled, but with a curt nod and a wave of his hand, Emhyr dismissed Jon, who bowed down low before leaving. 

Emhyr just watched as he went, settling back in his chair, lost in thought. Usually he wouldn’t bother with prisoners, but Jaskier was a special case. He was the key to his daughter’s return. He was the key to keeping Cirilla in Nilfgaard, doing what she had to do. 

Besides…Jaskier was the only one here who knew him before he was Emhyr, The White Flame Dancing On The Graves Of His Enemies, Emperor of Nilfgaard. Jaskier was the only one here that remembered him as Duny, knew him to be the father of Cirilla. 

Emhyr wasn’t so sure why that intrigued him to Jaskier so much. Perhaps because they had spoken and had quite a few conversations before Emhyr had faked his death. All Nilfgaardians bowed down to him, adored him, supported him and did what he ordered…but Jaskier wasn’t like that. He wasn’t Nilfgaardian. He wasn’t loyal to him. Jaskier would be the only one who pushed the boundaries, who spoke out of turn, trying to figure things out, trying to figure the game out. It was something different for Emhyr to deal with.

Emhyr pushed those thoughts aside. It was no use dwelling on the past or on the amusement factor of having someone who was willing to push the boundaries. He needed to focus on getting Jaskier to talk, to reveal something about Cirilla’s location. He needed to work out how to get his army into Redania and he needed to read the reports from his spies, to see if any of them had caught whispers or sight of Geralt of Rivia and where he might hide away a teenage girl.

Geralt sat in the small hall, sitting on one of the benches and partly bent over so his forehead was resting on the scarred wood of the table. He was absently tracing the deep marks in the table, left from the many years of roughhousing and from the odd knife gouge here and there. So much history just in the table. So many Witchers sat around this table, eating, playing gwent, studying and roughhousing…and now it was only Vesemir, him, Lambert and Eskel left, the only ones left knowing where some of these marks came from, the history and memories formed here…some of which were long forgotten after the Sacking. 

Geralt had made his own memories here. Years of talking with his brothers and mentor, of playing gwent and taking the absolute shit out of Lambert with Eskel. 

He had memories of Jaskier here. Memories of Jaskier sitting beside him, absently strumming his lute as he laughed along to some vulgar joke that Lambert had just told, or cheering when Eskel tackled Lambert to the ground. Memories of Jaskier leaning against his side, smiling his bright cheerful smile up at him as his bright blue eyes glittered with light and happiness, his flowery, sweet scent warm and happy. 

He wanted to keep those memories. He wanted to make more of them with Jaskier, to see him smile again, to be so bright and happy, to bury his nose into Jaskier’s hair and inhale that warm, happy scent, to hold Jaskier in his arms and never let him go again. 

Geralt frowned as that thought crossed his mind, guilt twisting at his stomach as he realised that he _longed_ for his dearest friend, the one he had failed. He shouldn’t be longing to hold Jaskier in his arms, to inhale his scent so deeply. He shouldn’t be wanting Jaskier in such a way, to want him so selfishly, when Jaskier was in danger.

“Well, you look like shit, Wolf,” a familiar voice said from behind him, pulling him from those thoughts. Geralt lifted his head, turning around and blinking tiredly at Lambert, who was staring at him with an arched eyebrow.

“Fuck off, Lambert,” Geralt grumbled in return, turning back to place his head back on the table. 

“Vesemir told me you were moody, but, fuck, Geralt, I’m the surly one,” Lambert responded as he walked over, dropping heavily onto the bench beside Geralt and sprawling out, staring at the despondent Witcher beside him. Geralt just remained silent, staring at the table top, which worried Lambert. 

He had thought Vesemir was overreacting when he said that Geralt was struggling with Jaskier’s capture, that he blamed himself past the point that was reasonable. 

Lambert understood the anger. Hell, he had been pissed when he had gotten Yennefer’s note and had punched the absolute shit out of a tree before he had packed up his camp and rode back hard towards Kaer Morhen, knowing that time of the essence. Luckily, Yennefer had thought the same and had portalled to his location. It had been perfect timing too as his horse had refused to go on any further. She had gotten him and his stubborn horse back to Kaer Morhen before the pissed off mage had stepped back into another portal to track down Eskel. 

Jaskier was one of their own. At times he was a pain in the ass, always singing and composing and playing that blasted lute…but he never judged Lambert, never feared him or treated him as less, which was something that Lambert would never forget. As a Witcher, he had been treated as though he was shit on someone’s shoe more often than not, or treated with trepidation or fearful respect. 

He never smelt fear off of Jaskier, not because of his appearance, not because he was a Witcher. The only time they ever smelt fear from the bard was when he was in the midst of a panic attack, but it was never aimed at them, was never because of them…and Lambert respected the plucky bard for that. 

Sighing heavily, Lambert looked at Geralt, who hadn’t moved a centimetre. He had never seen Geralt like this…and he had his suspicions why Geralt was taking this so hard, and it just wasn’t because of the guilt. 

Lambert knew he wasn’t seen as the perceptive one, but he could see what was going on, even if Geralt refused to see it, even if it had been kicking him in the balls he wouldn’t realise it…and usually Lambert would use that sort of juicy information to tease the absolute shit out of his perfect brother, but he couldn’t do that, not now, not when Geralt was suffering. 

He wasn’t as good as words as Eskel was…but he couldn’t let Geralt stay like this.

“We’re gonna get him back, Geralt,” he said to the silent white haired Witcher. “We’re gonna get him and we’re gonna make them pay for taking what's ours.”

Geralt just sighed, making Lambert roll his eyes. He wasn’t expecting Geralt to jump up and being his usual grumpy, protective self…but this was just too much.

“All right, get your mopey ass up,” Lambert sighed as he stood up. “I know you’re still recovering from whatever the fuck they drugged you with, but you can’t remain sitting on your ass and moping around feelin’ sorry for yourself.”

Geralt turned his head to look at Lambert in disbelief.

“Off. Your. Ass.” Lambert growled slowly, eyeing him off. “Let’s go to the training yard and beat the shit out of some dummies, pretend they’re Nilfgaardian. Then when Eskel finally shows up, we can figure out what our next move will be, yeah?”

Geralt finally sighed, pushing himself up to stand. Lambert grinned at that, stepping back to let Geralt step away from the table.

“C’mon, Wolf,” Lambert poked at his side. “Let’s go.”

Geralt sighed again, rolling his eyes slightly, but followed after Lambert towards the training grounds. Vesemir met them by the door, staring at Geralt for a moment.

“Don’t overdo it,” he warned Geralt. “Lambert, be sensible and don’t let Geralt overdo it. It won’t help with his healing process if he overdoes it…but it’ll do you good to get out there and moving. I’ll send Eskel to you when he and Yennefer arrive.”

Geralt nodded as Vesemir briefly touched his arm, looking at him with concern but pride, before he headed inside, letting the boys head out to the training area. 

Geralt tilted his head back, breathing in the fresh air, a warm breeze tangling his hair around his neck. It did feel good to be out in the open once again and he felt a bit stronger already.

He just needed Yennefer to hurry up with finding Eskel so they could plan their next move, so they could find Jaskier and bring him home where he belonged. 

Ciri was already in the training yard when they arrived, beating at a training dummy with her training sword. She turned around when she heard them coming, smiling when she saw Geralt, waving to him. Geralt waved back as he grabbed his own training sword after Lambert grabbed one for himself, knowing Geralt wasn’t up to using their real steel swords. 

Geralt spun the hilt in hand a few times, slashing the sword in front of him a couple of times just to get the feel of it. Lambert was doing the same in front of him.

“Ready?” Lambert asked him as he crouched. 

“Ready,” Geralt confirmed, shifting from foot to foot. He breathed in, eyes fixed on Lambert, waiting for him to wait the first move. With a grin, Lambert lunged forward and their sparring match began.

Lambert did hold his blows, Geralt noticed, but he didn’t really pay any mind to it. He knew he was struggling to keep up…but, still, he was here, standing his ground and it gave him confidence that he could get over the effects of this damn potion and come out stronger…for Jaskier, for Ciri. 

He would get stronger to protect them. He would do anything for them. With a sharp grin, Geralt jumped forward to meet Lambert’s blow, parrying it to Ciri’s cheers and Lambert’s cursing though he was grinning sharply. 

Jaskier sat on the bed, shivering, as he kept the towel wrapped around himself. Mererid had come in, followed by a small entourage of servants and had ordered him to strip as he was getting a bath and needed fresh clothing. 

“But…Jon said my leg wound can’t get wet,” Jaskier had pointed out to him as he wearily watched the servants come in with the buckets of heated water. Mererid had waved away his concerns.

“Already discussed with your healer,” Mererid responded airily. “He believes it has been long enough that you will be fine with a quick bath and ensuring that the wound is properly dried off afterwards.”

And so Jaskier had been forced to bathe, not that he usually hated it – quite the opposite in fact, he loved luxuriating in a nice, warm bath - he just didn’t like having to sit there while servants scrubbed him clean and shaved his face clean from the stubble that had grown while Mererid watched on and gave orders.

Once he was out of the bath and dried off, Mererid had ordered him to stand still so he could be measured.

“Why?” Jaskier had asked in confusion, stiffening as the male tailor came into the room and went straight to work with measuring Jaskier, ignoring the uncomfortableness of the bard and just doing his duty. 

“You can’t wear those old clothes all the time,” Mererid sniffed. “Our Emperor has ordered that you have a wardrobe of clothing to wear. Can’t wear rags in a Nilfgaardian court.”

Jaskier just blinked, uncertain of what to think of that, remaining still enough for the tailor to finish his measurements. 

“Somebody will be by soon to bring you some new clothing,” Mererid had informed before ordering everybody from the room, leaving Jaskier standing there, wrapped in a towel and bewildered.

So now he was sitting on his bed, dried off, but shivering as he waited for new clothes to be brought to him. He didn’t understand why they had bathed him and made him shave…or why Emhyr wanted him to have clothing fitted to him. He had an uncomfortable feeling about why they were trying to find clothes for him…and not just giving him the run of the mill clothing like they did last time. 

Jaskier looked up as the door opened and a rather motherly looking woman came bustling in, arms filled with clothing. Her grey hair was pulled back into a bun at the back of her hair and her light blue eyes kind as she looked to him, locating him sitting on the bed.

“Ah, young sir,” she said, voice soft and sweet, though something about her accent niggled at Jaskier, though he couldn’t figure out what. “There you are. I have clothing for you.”

Jaskier nodded, standing up as she came to stand by his side, laying the clothes out on the bed. Jaskier frowned as he looked them, reaching out to carefully touch the soft, silky black shirt, tracing up the delicate black embroidery.

His heart rate sped up as he took in the delicateness of the shirt and the well-made pants. These were good clothes, ones that he would usually look at…but definitely not the type they’d usually give prisoners.

“It’s all right, dear,” the woman said softly beside him. “They’re just clothes.”

Jaskier smiled weakly at her before looking back to the clothes. His dresser turned away for a moment to give him time to pull on fresh small clothes, before she turned around, helping him dress with gentle and careful hands. Once the shirt was buttoned up, she straightened it out, her soft smile crinkling the wrinkles adorning her face.

“There we go, sweetheart,” she murmured…and it was then that the accent clicked for Jaskier.

“You’re Temerian,” he said, watching as hers widened and she stepped back slightly, swallowing deeply.

“Well…this _was_ Temeria…and I’ve worked in this castle, for the royal family, for a long time,” she answered quietly, voice shaking. Jaskier stepped forward, taking her wrinkled hand in his own.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured to her, watching as she looked up at him in surprise. “I was just surprised that the Nilfgaardian Emperor would keep the old staff on.”

She smiled sadly at him at that. “I’ve served the royal family for most of my life…no matter who leads…and I do have mouths to feed, my grandkids to look after. I was lucky to be able to keep my position here despite…despite everything.”

Jaskier nodded in understanding, a sudden question coming to mind, something that he had thought of in the previous days but hadn’t been able to ask. 

“I-I know Foltest was assassinated, but what happened to his daughter, Adda?” Jaskier asked her quietly, watching as her eyes widened in alarm. “Please, Ma’am, I mean no harm, but my friend, Geralt, he was the Witcher who broke Adda’s curse. I just…I just want to know what happened to her.”

The woman stared at him for a moment, eyes darting over his face, as though searching for something before she sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, tired. Jaskier sat down beside her, still keeping her hand clasped in his own.

“I do not know,” she admitted hoarsely. “The assassin killed Foltest and the guards raised the alarm. We tried to hide Adda but he came searching for her anyway. He was huge, terrifying, and we knew that we couldn’t protect Adda, not when he could cut down the guards with such ease. We begged him not to hurt her, to spare her, as she was a woman with a mind of child, no threat at all. We begged him to just let her go and he told us he’d consider it, but that we needed to leave now, that he was only ordered to kill Foltest and all who tried to stop him, but he didn’t have to kill us.”

Jaskier nodded in understanding, though he was surprised that the assassin would allow people to survive.

“When we came back the next morning, Adda wasn’t there,” she whispered, voice breaking. “There was no body, not like Foltest or the royal guard, so we hope…we hope that the assassin allowed her to escape or just let her live, but we do not know, not for certain.”

Jaskier sighed, nodding again. He hoped that Adda was alive. He knew that Geralt checked in on her every time he was near to Temeria, just making sure the curse hadn’t relapsed and that she was going okay. Jaskier didn’t want Geralt to find out that the girl he went to such lengths to save had been assassinated for Nilfgaard. Despite all of the talk that Witchers didn’t care or didn’t have emotions, Jaskier knew that Adda had been murdered for the sake of a war that it would anger Geralt, that it would hurt him.

The woman just turned her head, looking to him again.

“You’re Jaskier, right?” she asked. Jaskier blinked, looking back to her, thoughts brought back to the present, and nodding, smiling slightly.

“That’s me,” he answered, though his smile fell a little flat. “And who do I have the pleasure of talking to?”

The woman laughed and swatted his arm. “My name is Lilliana,” she introduced herself. “I will be around the palace if you need me…though I cannot help you escape, they watch all Temerians too closely for that and I can’t risk my family.”

“I would never want you to risk your family,” Jaskier assured her, though his heart fell at knowing that he wouldn’t find help in this palace, but he couldn’t risk people’s lives or the lives of their family…not for his own sake. 

Liliana smiled as she stood up, brushing down her skirts. “Well, I need to get back to my duties. Do let me know if you need anything, Jaskier,” she told him. “If you feel like some fruit or some juice or some books, I’m sure I could wrangle them for you.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Jaskier smiled at her, getting another swat at his arm for his troubles. His smile fell from his face as she left the room, leaving him alone to the crushing silence of the room and to his thoughts once again. 

Sighing, Jaskier leaned back against the soft mattress, head rolling back on his neck so he could stare at the bed canopy above him. He didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t what Emhyr’s game was, what his plans were.

There was so much uncertainty, so much unknown…and it made Jaskier feel lost and uneasy. Usually he knew what was going on his life, he knew his role. He followed Geralt. He wrote songs and ballads and sung in inns and in courts, but then he followed Geralt. While they didn’t usually have a plan, just going along from town to town, it was still part of their life. They knew they would hunt down the contracts and go where they were needed…or even where they weren’t, but they still knew what they were doing in their life, what their role and purpose was.

But this…not knowing what was going to happen, not knowing what the future held, it made Jaskier feel nervous and panicked, like he needed to move, like he needed to run...but also to hide away, away from the danger and the uncertainty. 

Jaskier opened his eyes and shifted his head so he was staring straight again once he heard the door open. 

His heart skipped a beat and he swallowed nervously when he saw four Nilfgaardian guards standing there in the open doorway, staring back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter!  
> Sorry it took a bit longer but this week has been busy!
> 
> Also, I maaaay have a new Witcher story in mind, once this is finished of course...but it'll be a Witcher/Avengers crossover, the idea just hasn't left me :P


	9. Discussion with the Emperor

Jaskier swallowed nervously as he followed the guards, who had just come to retrieve him from his room…cell. He had barely had time to pull on his boots before they were ushering him from the room, refusing to answer his stammered questions about where they were taking him. 

They stopped in front of a door, one of the guards knocking on the door while another stood behind Jaskier, making sure he didn’t run. 

“Enter.”

The guard opened the door, stepping in, before the one behind Jaskier shoved at his shoulder, making him step forward and into the room as well.

“Your Excellence, we have him.”

Jaskier froze at that, staring forward into the elegantly dressed rooms…which was apparently Emhyr’s private quarters. Emhyr stepped into Jaskier’s line of sight. He had gotten rid of the stiff, elegant doublet and was wearing just a simple, black, long sleeved undershirt with a high neckline with a pair of simple black trousers. Emhyr’s cold brown eyes met Jaskier’s confused and uncertain blue eyes before he pulled his gaze away, looking towards his guards.

“Leave us,” he ordered them before turning away.

“But, my Lord!” one of the guards tried to speak up. Emhyr just turned to fix the guard with a piercing look.

“Do you think that I cannot handle a single bard?” Emhyr questioned him coldly. “Is that what you think of me, soldier?”

“N-No, Sire, o-of course not,” the guard was quick to back-track, stammering. Emhyr waved his hand in clear dismissal and the guards quickly backed away, though not before shooting Jaskier warning, dark looks. Jaskier looked over his shoulder to watch the guards leave, shutting the door firmly behind them with a loud snap. 

“Sit down,” Emhyr spoke up suddenly, startling Jaskier. Jaskier looked back to the Nilfgaardian Emperor, who was looking at him, amused. Emhyr gestured to the two comfortable looking red couches. Jaskier swallowed but did as he was ordered, nervously sitting down on one of the couches, perching himself on the edge of the soft cushion. 

He glanced around the room, pausing here and there when he noted off colouring on the walls…as though portraits which had hung there a long time had been removed. He looked up as he heard footsteps approaching, seeing Emhyr was walking towards him, a bottle in one hand and two goblets in the other. Emhyr set them down on the small table between the couches before he sat down himself on the couch opposite to Jaskier. He didn’t speak as he leaned forward, grabbing the bottle and pouring the wine into the two goblets. Emhyr took one of the goblets himself and leaned back against the back of the couch he was sitting on, one foot coming to rest on the opposite knee as he regarded Jaskier, who sat there frozen and unsure. Emhyr just stared at him for a moment, taking in Jaskier’s youthful features.

“You really have not aged, have you?” Emhyr mused. “Fringilla did inform me about this spell or curse you had put on you, but I was expecting at least a bit of aging, perhaps a wrinkle or two, in the twelve years since I last saw you.”

He noted how Jaskier’s shoulders tensed, a scowl pulling at the bard’s lips at the mention of Fringilla and stored that information away for later.

“You may drink,” Emhyr told him, smirking over the top of his own goblet before he took a sip. “I haven’t poisoned or drugged it. That would defeat the purpose of bringing you here.”

“And what purpose might that be?” Jaskier asked warily as he leaned forward to take the goblet, knowing he couldn’t refuse it.

“To talk,” Emhyr replied simply, tilting his head slightly as he stared at Jaskier. Jaskier hid his frown as he took the smallest sip of wine, the rich flavour immediately bursting on his tongue. Usually Jaskier would love the chance to drink such rich, expensive wine…but he couldn’t savour it, not in this situation. 

“What is there to talk about?” Jaskier asked, somewhat bitterly. Emhyr gave a low chuckle at that. 

“Oh, come now, Jaskier, you’ve never been short on words before,” Emhyr smirked, causing Jaskier to scowl slightly. He looked up at Emhyr, eyebrows pulled slightly together as he regarded the emperor. He didn’t want to ask questions, knowing it could be some sort of trap to get him in trouble.

“You can ask questions, Jaskier,” Emhyr said, startling Jaskier, as though he had read his mind. Emhyr smirked at Jaskier’s startled expression. “I have no issues with you asking questions, especially if it means you will settle in easier. The only thing I will not tolerate is disrespect.”

“Fine,” Jaskier muttered under his breath, looking to Emhyr before asking simply, “What happened to Adda?”

Emhyr blinked in surprise at that, not expecting that question. “Why do you care?”

“Geralt saved her,” Jaskier responded simply, hand absently reaching up to touch the medallion hanging around his neck. “He did what no one else was willing to do and found a way to break the curse instead of just killing her.”

Emhyr hummed in agreement before giving a small shake of his head.

“I do not know,” he admitted uncaringly. “She is of no importance to me.”

“No importance?” Jaskier echoed in disbelief. “She’s Foltest’s daughter, wouldn’t you want to know what happened to her?”

“No,” Emhyr said flatly. “She is woman with a mind of a child. She would have never been able to rule, so, no, I do not care what happened to her. She could be alive and hidden somewhere and I could not care less. She is not a threat to me.”

Jaskier couldn’t think of a reply for that, but part of him was hopeful that Adda was out there, safely hidden away. Emhyr smirked as he took another sip of his wine, watching over the top of his goblet as Jaskier absently ran his fingertips around the rim of his own goblet. 

“I’ve also decided that you will not just be sitting in your room, waiting for Geralt to do the right thing and hand Cirilla over to Nilfgaard as per my demands,” Emhyr spoke up, startling Jaskier, who paled at that thought.

“W-What will I be doing?” he asked hesitantly, swallowing deeply and trying to clear that anxious lump that had formed in his throat. 

“You are to be my court bard,” Emhyr informed him, cold brown eyes glinting as Jaskier stammered in disbelief. “It would be a waste to let your talent go unused while I have you here.”

“I-I don’t have my lute,” Jaskier stammered out. “Your men left it behind.”

Emhyr waved his hand dismissively. “That is easily taken care of. One can easily be sourced for you.”

Jaskier fidgeted with the goblet in his hands before taking another small sip. He was still in disbelief that Emhyr wanted to use him as a bard.

“Why?” he questioned quietly, gaining Emhyr’s attention. “Y-You know that I’m known for being the Witcher’s Bard, so why would you want to use me as your bard?”

“You’re well known all across the Continent, Jaskier,” Emhyr said simply. “Why would I not use you when I have you at my disposal? Word will spread that the famed Jaskier the Bard is performing for Nilfgaard, that he is Nilfgaard’s Royal Bard…it will work in my favour when that spreads to the North, to Redania.” 

Jaskier frowned at that, unsure of how that would work…but it also sparked a bit of hope within him. If it spread that Jaskier was here in Vizima, being Nilfgaard’s Bard – though against his will – Geralt could hear about it and know where Jaskier was. He could come for Jaskier and take him home. 

“I do not want you singing your Witcher songs repeatedly either,” Emhyr warned him, eyes flashing dangerously. “I know they’re popular, believe me I’ve heard them even in Nilfgaard, and I won’t begrudge you singing one or two songs at the request of my guests…but you will seek my permission to sing them first, understood?”

“Understood,” Jaskier answered quietly, giving a small nod of his head. He knew that not all liked his songs about Geralt. Sometimes singing them got rotten fruit or solid objects thrown at him, or people threatening him because they hated Witchers and therefore hated Jaskier for defending them and singing about them in a positive light. 

There was still one thing that Jaskier wanted desperately to know, what he was so confused about. He looked up to see Emhyr was watching him, even as he sipped at his wine, cold brown eyes fixed on Jaskier. He wasn’t sure what Emhyr was planning. He had changed so much from the man that Jaskier once knew as Duny. Emhyr was cunning and ruthless, seeming to have all of these plans that no one knew about as he burnt the Continent to the ground, ordering the deaths of those that had once been family to him. Duny hadn’t been like that. Sure, Duny had had a sharp mind and a sharp wit, but he wasn’t so ruthlessly cunning or cold like Emhyr was now.

Jaskier didn’t know if Emhyr would answer this question, but he still had to ask it.

“Why me?” Jaskier asked hoarsely, getting Emhyr’s full attention. “You could have grabbed Geralt o-or someone else, why focus on finding me on this last year, on hunting me down?” 

Emhyr hummed thoughtfully at that, leaning back again and getting comfortable as he looked to Jaskier. 

“You know as well as I that Geralt would never speak or give up Cirilla's location,” Emhyr told him, “but threatening you would definitely get him to move, to try to protect Cirilla and perhaps mess up somewhere and reveal her location or try to double-cross me by using her to get your location.”

Jaskier shook his head at that, knowing Geralt would never risk Ciri. 

“Why _me_ though?” Jaskier pushed, desperately needing to know why he had been hunted so fiercely. “You say it’s because I can help **if** you get Ciri, to help her settle into her new life…but you could introduce her to Jon and get the same results!”

Emhyr chuckled lowly at that. “Oh, Jaskier, you truly don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?!” 

Emhyr leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared unblinkingly at Jaskier. 

“You know that Geralt is tied to Cirilla through destiny, since he claimed the Law of Surprise,” Emhyr explained. “However, it was because of _you_ that Geralt was there that night in the first place. He was there to protect you and he would not have been there if it hadn’t been for your friendship.”

Jaskier just blinked in confusion, making Emhyr chuckle darkly once again. 

“I didn’t see it, not until you came to Cintra for Cirilla’s first birthday,” Emhyr continued on, eyes distant as he thought back. “Cirilla had just begun to teethe and for the two week prior to her birthday, she just would not stop crying from the pain. No matter what we did, no matter what we tried, we couldn’t get her to stop crying. Mousesack tried. Calanthe tried. Pavetta, myself, Eist…but none of us could do anything to stop her crying and we were all at our wits end, tired and exhausted. But then you come in,” Emhyr said, eyes sharpening as he looked to Jaskier. “You come in wearing that red and gold outfit and smiling and cheerful like always…and Calanthe - so exhausted that she didn’t even care that it was you - dumped my wailing daughter into your arms…where she immediately stopped crying.”

Jaskier didn’t know what to say to that. He had almost forgotten that memory. He remembered walking into Cintra’s palace and hearing Ciri’s wails and seeing Calanthe looking exhausted. He remembered Ciri being placed into his arms, which had shocked him, when the young princess had stopped crying and had looked up at him with red, watery eyes before giggling and reaching up for him. He had been so focused on cooing at her and making her giggle that he hadn’t seen the others looks of disbelief. 

“ _You_ were the only one who could soothe her,” Emhyr continued, breaking Jaskier from that memory. “Just by being in your arms, she was comforted and happy…and it was then I realised that you were just as much part of her destiny, part of her future, as Geralt was. Though I have to admit, it was something I had pushed aside until I received word that you had been captured by Cahir,” Emhyr finished, musing, as he leaned back once again.

“Y-You think I’m tied to Ciri through destiny?” Jaskier asked him in disbelief. “I didn’t claim the Law of Surprise on her, Geralt did…so how are our lives and destinies connected?” 

“Because _you_ were the one that started all of this, that led to the possibility of Geralt claiming the Law of Surprise,” Emhyr said, almost growling in frustration as he tried to make Jaskier _see_. “You were the catalyst for it all. If it weren’t for you then Geralt would not have been in Cintra that night. He would not have saved me from Calanthe’s wrath and would not have claimed the Law of Surprise and therefore Cirilla. _You_ put the event in motion by asking Geralt to accompany you, therefore you are just as connected to Cirilla as Geralt is.”

Jaskier just remained silent to that, leaning back himself as he considered Emhyr’s words. Emhyr just smirked triumphantly, sipping at his wine again, knowing that Jaskier could _finally_ see the connection between himself and Cirilla. 

Jaskier couldn’t stop thinking about it now, thinking of the relationship he and Ciri had forged in Kaer Morhen, and going over the times he had met her as a child where she had always managed to sought him out despite Calanthe’s misgivings. Whenever Ciri had been feeling low at Kaer Morhen, when she missed her grandmother and her family and friends, she had always sought Jaskier out for comfort. She and Jaskier would sit together, usually in front of the warm fires burning within Kaer Morhen, with Jaskier either holding Ciri close as she sobbed, or soothing her by brushing out her hair and telling her stories. 

He was the one she came to when she needed comfort, it was what connected them, knowing Jaskier was the one who could truly give her the comfort and sympathy needed…with the awkward, uncertainty that the Witchers and Yennefer occasionally had when it came to dealing with a sobbing, homesick teenager. 

Jaskier shook his head slightly. This whole revelation with him and Ciri being tied through destiny was something he’d have to think more of. He looked back to Emhyr, seeing the Nilfgaardian Emperor was still watching him, smirking slightly.

“Fine, say Ciri and I are connected to each other through destiny,” Jaskier said slowly, carefully, as he met Emhyr’s steady gaze. “Why do you seek her so badly now when you made her think you were dead?” 

Emhyr was silent for a moment as he stared at Jaskier before he shook his head. “That is enough questions for one night,” he muttered, taking a gulp of wine. 

Jaskier frowned but did not press, knowing that Emhyr would see it as disrespect and would surely punish him…which Jaskier did not want. He needed to be in fighting shape if he was to get the hell out of here.

“One last question,” Jaskier asked quietly as a sudden thought came to mind. “It’s nothing to do with Ciri.”

“Fine,” Emhyr acquiesced, staring at Jaskier. 

“My horse was brought here with me,” Jaskier told him. “A grey dappled mare…and I was just wondering what has happened to her?” 

Emhyr chuckled at that, surprising Jaskier. “Out of all the questions I thought you’d ask, I didn’t think of that,” Emhyr admitted with a smirk. “Your horse is in the stables where she will remain for now. Though I must ask, why so much concern for a horse?”

“Geralt brought her for me,” Jaskier admitted, reaching up to touch the medallion once again as he often did when he thought of Geralt. “Buttercup was a gift to me.”

“If you behave and do as you’re ordered, I may allow you to see her and tend to her,” Emhyr told him before his lips twisted in a smile and he leaned forward again to meet Jaskier’s surprised gaze. “But I _know_ you, Jaskier. I know that you know how to work Royal courts, how to act to appease royalty and to get things working in your favour. I know that you aren’t going to sit idly by and not try and figure out a way to escape…but I will give you this warning now. You may try to figure out a way, do it…keep your mind occupied with plans and ideas if it pleases you, but any attempt to escape, to try and turn my staff to help you, will result in _serious_ punishment. I will have you lashed, I will have you locked in a cell until you realise the error of your ways, I will take that medallion from you and give it away, and if you anger me enough, I will make you watch as your dear horse is killed.”

Jaskier stared at him, wide eyed in horror. Emhyr knew that Jaskier would have to go a fair way for him to have a perfectly good horse killed, but it was the fear that was the goal. The fear of losing the horse that Geralt had brought for him would surely curb Jaskier’s attempts at anything foolish. 

“O-Okay,” Jaskier managed to stammer out. “S-Say I say something foolish, or disrespectful, without thinking…w-what would happen to me? Because I have issues controlling the sass sometimes, Geralt always said it wouldn’t surprise him if someone tried to beat me for speaking out in ways that I do,” he rambled on fearfully.

“Lashings and time in a cell should curb that,” Emhyr told him, cutting off the fearful rambling. Jaskier gave a small nod in understanding, his back twinging with phantom pain at the remembrance of being lashed by Cahir. “You will learn your place here, Jaskier,” Emhyr continued as he stood up, heading to the door to summon a guard. “You will accept your new life…in time.”

Jaskier swallowed as he placed the half-filled goblet down on the table with shaking hands, standing up as the guards came to escort him back to his room. He bowed down low, as he knew he must, especially as the guards watching, which made Emhyr smirk once again. 

“Thank you for the discussion, your Majesty,” Jaskier murmured, listening as Emhyr chuckled quietly, knowing exactly what Jaskier was doing. “It made things a lot clearer.”

“Good,” Emhyr responded curtly. “Remember my warning, Jaskier. Do not try anything foolish. You still have use to me now, but it does not mean that that grants you immunity from my full wrath. Anger me enough and I will get rid of you.”

“Of course, your Majesty,” Jaskier responded, shuddering slightly. He knew that Emhyr’s patience had a limit…and it wasn’t something he was willing to test. He needed to be alive, to give Geralt time to find out where he was so he could come for him. 

“Good,” Emhyr said. “Until next time, Jaskier.”

Jaskier nodded, breathing out as he followed the guards from the room, feeling Emhyr’s gaze on him, causing the short hairs on the back of his neck to prickle uncomfortably, as he left. 

He remained silent as he followed the guards back to his room, not protesting or attempting to talk to them as he walked into his room, caught up in his memories of the discussion he had just had with Emhyr. He walked into the middle of the room, pausing as he heard the door shut heavily behind him, the heavy scrape of the key turning in the lock ringing through the silent room and causing unease to prickle further up Jaskier’s spine.

He felt…on edge…overwhelmed…the conversation that he had just had, everything he had just learnt from Emhyr, spinning throughout his thoughts with no reason or rhyme, just a blur of words and phrases.

With a choked breath, Jaskier fell to his knees, burying his face into his hands as his heart raced and his breath quickened with panic. 

He didn’t know what to think…he didn’t know what to do. 

Emhyr knew that he was still planning on escaping somehow, that he was still searching. He knew that Jaskier knew how to act and work around royalty and play them, which was true. He had grown up being taught to be a Viscount. He knew the intricacies of royalty, of how to act, how to behaviour around them. He knew how to act, to behave, to simper or flirt or compliment to get what he wanted – which was usually a gig at a grand, stately event or in a court, or to get away from royalty who wanted to keep him…or to get into one’s bed. 

But Emhyr _knew_ this. He had seen Jaskier do it at Cintra and he’d be watching to make sure Jaskier didn’t do it here in order to escape.

Jaskier shuddered again, hands clenching at his hair, trying to calm down his racing heart and ragged breathing, trying to calm himself and stop that overwhelmed feeling when it felt like all of his nerves were tense and firing at the same time, like he needed to run, like he needed to do _something_. 

He thought of Emhyr’s proclamation that he was to be the court bard, that the news would spread throughout the Continent and his heart finally slowed down at that thought. He just knew the news of him being in Vizima, being forced to be the court bard for Emhyr and Nilfgaard, would get to someone he knew. It could be that Lambert or Eskel would hear about it and tell Geralt. It could be that Triss, Sabrina or Tissaia could hear about it and tell Yennefer, who would definitely get Geralt so they could come after him yet again, just so she could rescue him and playfully hold it over him and call him a lost puppy. 

The thought of Yennefer and her teasing and their bickering made Jaskier laugh, a weak, watery chuckle. Finally, he took in a deep breath, sitting upright again before exhaling slowly, feel exhausted but resolved yet again.

He would put up with Emhyr’s game for now, he decided firmly as he pushed himself to his feet and stumbled towards the bed, because he knew that once Geralt found out where he was that he would not stop until he got Jaskier back…and Jaskier knew – hoped – deep in his heart that Eskel and Lambert and Coen would be there by Geralt’s side, just like they had promised Jaskier that first Winter, promising they would protect him, that they would also come for him if something happened again...that he was part of their pack now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those feelings are all over the place with Jaskier, but I'm hoping I'm getting his panic and anxieties right...but also how he's holding on to hope...
> 
> You all went quiet on me last chapter :P Let me know what you think...because, as you've all guessed it, I'm a sucker for comments! It just helps knowing if you like it or I'm doing all right with the story :D


	10. Comfort

Eskel hadn’t been sure of what to expect when he got back to Kaer Morhen, courtesy of Yennefer and the portal she had conjured. Yennefer had been blunter than usual, snappier, and Eskel knew it was because she was worried about Jaskier and Geralt – though she wouldn’t admit it. He’d been near Novigrad, riding back towards Kaer Morhen once he had received Yennefer’s original note, when days later, she had appeared grumpier than ever through a portal. 

She had been trying to track him down to bring him back home to Kaer Morhen and had had been having trouble getting a lock on his location since he kept moving – and rather quickly thanks to Scorpion’s speed. According to her grumbles, it had taken her a couple of days to track Lambert down as well.

When he stepped through the portal, leading Scorpion, and his head spinning uncomfortably as he came out of the other side – and how he hated portals – he hadn’t been expecting to see Geralt in the courtyard, sparring carefully with Lambert. 

Vesemir had come to stand by his side as Ciri had led Scorpion away, after giving Eskel a massive hug as always, as they watched Lambert and Geralt spar…though it was much slower and more careful than usual, Eskel couldn’t help but notice. Yennefer looked at them tiredly before shaking her head, muttering about needing to lay down before she disappeared inside the old keep. 

“From the way Yennefer was speaking, I wasn’t expecting to see Geralt upright,” Eskel murmured quietly to Vesemir. 

Vesemir sighed heavily and shook his head, frowning as he looked at Geralt, who was wavering slightly. “He’s pushing himself,” Vesemir muttered. “He’s pushing himself a lot more than he should because he feels guilty.”

“It’s not his fault,” Eskel said, surprised, as he looked to Vesemir. Vesemir looked at him with amusement. 

“Do you think I don’t know that?” he asked gruffly. “Try telling him that.”

“Ah,” Eskel murmured, finally seeing the issue. He knew Geralt tried to shoulder the blame for a lot of things in life that weren’t always his fault. A hunt gone wrong…the whole Butcher of Blaviken incident – which Eskel knew was a load of shit anyway – and now Jaskier’s capture. 

“Well, might as well join them,” Eskel said, grinning slightly at Vesemir. Vesemir rolled his eyes but nodded.

“Go ahead…just make sure Geralt doesn’t push himself too far,” Vesemir warned. Eskel nodded in agreement before he went to join his brothers. 

Geralt nodded at him as Eskel joined them, training sword in hand. Eskel nodded back, no words needing to be said, before he joined in, immediately deflecting a blow from Lambert. 

Ciri was watching from the sidelines, Eskel noticed, but she left when Geralt faltered, falling to a knee, looking shaken.

“Geralt, enough,” Eskel murmured, exchanging a look with Lambert, who was looking annoyed…though not at Geralt, more at the world itself. 

“No,” Geralt grunted as he pushed himself up, skin paler than usual and covered with a sheen of sweat. “Let’s keep going.”

“Fuck no,” Lambert growled, eyes flashing. “Never thought I’d say it, Wolf, but enough is enough.”

“No!” Geralt snarled, eyes flashing, even as he panted heavily. “Need to keep going…need to be stronger.”

Eskel deftly ducked under the somewhat sloppy swing that Geralt aimed at him. 

“Geralt!” 

Geralt flinched at the call, all three of them turning to see Vesemir coming towards them, lips twisted with disapproval. 

“Enough,” Vesemir ordered as he got close to them. “Enough, Geralt. You can’t push yourself too hard or you will set back your recovery. You will be no use to Jaskier then.”

Eskel watched as Geralt’s entire being just seemed to slump, shoulders hunching forward and face just falling, showing his exhaustion. Vesemir sighed when he saw it too.

“Come, Geralt,” Vesemir murmured soothingly, wrapping a supportive arm around his shoulders. “You’ve worked hard enough for today. It’s time to rest and recover now.”

Eskel watched as Geralt was led away by Vesemir, exchanging another look with Lambert, who just scowled and shook his head, picking up the discarded training swords to put them away. 

Usually seeing Geralt being forced to have a nap like some young, errant pup by Papa Vesemir would have been humorous for both Lambert and Eskel, but there was nothing even remotely funny about this situation, not with Geralt the way he was, weakened by a potion and by guilt, and Jaskier somewhere out there in Nilfgaard’s hands. 

“Comin’, Eskel?” Lambert called. Eskel went to nod, glancing about Kaer Morhen’s silent grounds, before something caught his eye.

“No, you go ahead,” Eskel said. Lambert frowned, turning to see what Eskel was looking at before making a small noise of understanding and nodding.

“Good luck,” Lambert muttered to him before he headed back towards the keep. Eskel sighed, knowing he’d need it, before he headed towards the high walls at the back of the keep, on the right side. He clambered up the walls, ignoring the crumbling steps, before he settled down to sit on the wall, dangling his legs over the side and looking out over the valley below. 

“Are you okay, Ciri?” Eskel asked the girl sitting beside him, even as he still stared out over the valley, watching as forktail swooped down low over the forest far in the distance. 

He smelt the salty tang of tears before he looked to Ciri and saw them, trickling down her cheeks and over her trembling bottom lip as she cried silently. 

“Ah, Little Wolf,” he sighed softly, reaching a large over to wrap over her shoulders, pulling her into his solid bulk. Ciri turned into him, fingers clutching onto his red and black armoured shirt, clinging on tightly to him as she cried silently into his shirt. Eskel hugged her tighter to his side, assuring her that he was there. “It’s going to be okay, Pup,” he murmured soothingly.

“B-But G-Geralt is hurt a-and Jaskier…Jaskier’s _gone_!” she sobbed against his shoulder. “W-What if we c-can’t find him?”

“We will, Ciri,” Eskel swore quietly. “We don’t give up on our own…not when there are so few of us left – and Jaskier is one of us. We’ll find him.”

“W-What if I gave myself up to Nilfgaard?” Ciri asked quietly, startling the bulky Witcher. “I-I saw the letter they pinned to Geralt’s bag, demanding me if Geralt ever wanted…wanted to see Jaskier a-alive again. W-What if we act as though you’re handing me over so we can find out where Jaskier is?”

“No, Ciri,” Eskel said firmly, holding the young girl closer. “That’s not worth the risk.”

“But Jaskier…!” Ciri protested. Eskel sighed, shifting slightly so he could tilt Ciri’s head up to meet her gaze.

“As soon as they get you, Ciri, then they have no need to keep Jaskier alive,” Eskel informed her gravely, watching as Ciri’s green eyes widened in horror. “As long as you are out of their grasp, it keeps Jaskier alive because they _need_ him. They need him for blackmail, to use against Geralt, to get _you_.”

Eskel sighed softly as he looked to Ciri, whose brow was furrowed in thought, but whose green eyes were still filled with worry and unshed tears. 

“Keeping you away from Nilfgaard, keeping them searching for you, gives us time to get to Jaskier, to rescue him and bring him home,” Eskel said.

“B-But what if they hurt him?” Ciri questioned, voice quiet and weak. “What if they hurt him worse than they did last time?” 

Eskel hummed deeply at that, looking back out over the valley. Yes, it was something he knew could happen, something he tried not to think about, imagining Jaskier in pain and frightened. Eskel closed his eyes, swallowing hard to chase that image away, unable to bear even imagining Jaskier’s fearful blue eyes, covered in bruises, cowering, weakened and frightened. 

“Then we take care of him,” Eskel said, voice rough. “Like we did last time. He’s our family, Ciri, and we’ll take care of him.”

Ciri nodded, sighing softly and tiredly as she leaned back against Eskel’s side, the both of them looking out over the valley and the trees below. 

“He is family,” Ciri piped up a little while later, getting Eskel’s attention. “B-Back in Cintra, when I was little, I-I remember Jaskier coming to perform at galas and at parties.” 

Eskel looked back to Ciri’s face, seeing a wistful expression upon it, her eyes faraway with memory.

“He was always so happy and wore the brightest clothing,” Ciri continued. “Grandmother didn’t seem to like him, but…but there was something about him. I didn’t really know him and I was surrounded by all of these people at these events and I hated talking to them because they always talked down to me or were just so…so _polite_ – but Jaskier was different. I looked at him and I trusted him. He felt like _family_ instantly, before I even spoke to him.” Ciri looked up to Eskel, a frown pulling at her lips. “Do-Do you know what I mean?”

“Mm,” Eskel hummed. He got what Ciri was trying to say, but he didn’t truly understand himself. He did become super protective of Jaskier once he saw the state the bard was in once Geralt had brought him home, seeing that he wasn’t the person that Geralt had described over all of those years. He expected Jaskier to be bright, loud and painfully cheery…not withdrawn and quiet, jumping at shadows and loud noises. 

“He was always so sweet to me and never treated me like I was some stupid child,” Ciri said. “I could tell that he was nervous about Grandmother, but it didn’t stop him talking to me o-or playing me music when he was meant to be on a break.”

“Sounds like him,” Eskel chuckled quietly. 

“I-I just want him back, Eskel,” Ciri whispered, wrapping her arms as much as she was able to around Eskel’s solid build. Eskel shifted slightly so he could wrap both arms around her, hugging her close. 

He was still getting used to all of these hugs and the affection that Ciri required, something he wasn’t used to as they weren’t brought up with affection and people usually stayed away from him when he was on the Path, disgusted by his scars. Ciri and Jaskier had been slowly breaking down those barriers, making it easier for all of them to show affection, even to one another. 

“We’re going to do all we can to get him back, Pup,” Eskel promised, feeling Ciri’s fingers clutch on tighter to him. “He’s one of us…and we’ll go to the ends of the Earth to find him – and to keep you safe, Little Wolf. We’re not going to let anyone hurt you either, Pup. Never.”

Ciri gave a small sob at that, but relaxed a bit in Eskel’s arms. Eskel just rested his chin upon the top of her head, relieved that his suspicion was correct…and that Ciri was just a little bit fearful for her future as well, knowing that Nilfgaard was still hunting her down, had murdered her family, had harmed Geralt, and had captured someone she loved dearly and considered family.

“We’ve got you, Little Wolf, we’ve got you,” Eskel murmured, knowing Ciri just needed the reassurance. 

He wasn’t all that good with emotions and comfort. It hadn’t something they had received during their upbringing at Kaer Morhen, but he was willing to open himself up to it, to learn to be more open and more tactile and reassuring, for their littlest wolf, for their Ciri. 

Once Ciri had settled down and felt a bit better, after they watched the sunset together too, she and Eskel headed inside, finding the others inside the small hall – even Geralt, bleary eyed as he was. 

“Everything all right?” Vesemir asked in concern, golden eyes on Ciri as she went to sit next to Yennefer, leaning against the mage’s side. Eskel nodded, exchanging a small smile with Ciri.

“Just had a chat,” he answered with a shrug as he sat down beside Geralt, drawing his stubborn brother to lean against him. Geralt did so with a grumble, but settled down against Eskel’s warm side, exhaling slightly at Eskel’s familiar scent. 

“Now,” Vesemir said gravely as he looked around the table. “How do we find our wayward bard?” 

“Nilfgaard’s occupation is vast,” Yennefer responded grimly. “They have numerous garrisons all over the South, they have Temeria and Vizima, and all the way down to Nilfgaard. They could have Jaskier in any one of those garrisons or camps.”

“I don’t believe they’d put him anywhere,” Vesemir rebutted. “After all the trouble they went through to hunt him down, they’re not going to send him anywhere. He’ll be somewhere important, somewhere with easy access for the Nilfgaardians. He’ll be in a garrison with a high ranking officer, a stronghold.”

“Still doesn’t narrow things down,” Lambert said, frowning at them all. “They’ve also got mages, as we know, who could transport Jaskier anywhere Nilfgaard wanted. He could be in fucking Nilfgaard for all we know!” 

“He wouldn’t be,” Geralt spoke up roughly. “They need him close by, to use him against me when they need him.”

“And Fringilla is still in the Continent,” Yennefer added, glancing worriedly at Geralt. “She’s still searching for Ciri, still trying to find a way for the army to get into the North where Redania isn’t watching.”

“So we just need to narrow down the garrisons or strongholds that Nilfgaard might be holding Jaskier in,” Eskel spoke up hopefully, folding his hands on top of the table as he looked to Geralt. “It has to be somewhere with a high ranking official, since they wouldn’t trust as captive of Jaskier’s important to someone low on the food chain, somewhere that could hold a prisoner securely but placed somewhere easy for Nilfgaard to access if they need to transport him somewhere quickly.”

“How do we narrow it down then?” Lambert asked as he leaned back, scowling. “It’ll take us _months_ if we were to search all of the garrisons and strongholds.”

“Not if we had help,” Eskel countered, looking to Vesemir who nodded in agreement. “We can ask Coen if he could send out a message to the Griffins he knows, get them to keep an eye out, check out any Nilfgaardian camps they’re near, listen out for any rumours.”

“I’ve got a few associates I can call upon,” Vesemir added on, smirking slightly. “Lords that owe me a few favours.”

“Tissaia, Triss and Sabrina are already listening out for any news about Jaskier,” Yennefer added as she absently stroked Ciri’s hair. “Sabrina has found a place in a court, so she has access to a wealth of information and gossip. Tissaia also has the gossip of the sorcerers and mages in Aretuza and Ban Ard.” 

“Still not enough,” Geralt grunted, shifting slightly against Eskel’s side. “Still will take us months.”

Lambert shifted slightly, sighing. “I know a few people too,” he said quietly. “Got a friend in the School of the Cat.”

“Do you trust him?” Vesemir questioned, eyes fixed on Lambert. The Cat School was a tricky one, filled with Witchers turned assassins.

Lambert nodded, eyes firm as he stared back at Vesemir. “I trust Aiden with my life.”

“Good,” Vesemir nodded back. “That’s all I need.”

“The School of the Cat keeps together in a caravan mostly since their keep was destroyed,” Lambert explained to Yennefer and Cirilla. “Occasionally one or two will break off to take a contract, but they’ll return to the caravan in time. Aiden is a friend of mine, if I ask for help, he’ll do it…and I can ask him to ask the rest of the Cats to help.”

“Might come in handy later on too,” Vesemir mused. “When we find Jaskier, we may need help to get him back, to attack wherever they’re holding him.”

“Well, Aiden would definitely be in with that,” Lambert grinned. “Cats don’t turn down the chance for a good fight.”

“Coen would assist for Jaskier,” Eskel agreed. “I’m sure the Griffins would intervene too, especially to rescue one wrongfully imprisoned.”

“One who is important to Witchers,” Vesemir added on. “Jaskier’s songs have benefited _all_ Witchers, not just us. He is also part of our Pack, that makes him important to the Witchers too.” 

Lambert nodded in agreement, sighing. “I’ll set out as soon as I can to go find Aiden.”

“I can portal you to his side,” Yennefer said, frowning at him. 

“Better not,” Lambert answered with a slightly feral grin. “Aiden – though being one of the most trustworthy people I know – would attack as soon as you stepped out through the portal. It’s better I go and find him myself.”

“Will it take you long?” Eskel asked, glancing at Geralt.

“Nah, shouldn’t take too long,” Lambert drawled with a shrug. “We’ve got a system so we can meet up, so it’ll take about a week to get to the usual spot and then send the message. We’ll head out to find the caravan of Cats after I talk to him.”

“So certain he’ll agree?”

“To go and fight against Nilfgaard, the Cats will love the opportunity,” Lambert replied to Yennefer, grinning sharply. “We agree on that at least.”

“When will you set off?” Vesemir asked, gnarled hands resting on top of the table. 

“Day or so,” Lambert answered. “Gotta get the supplies ready again…and I wore my horse down trying to get back here as quickly as I could, a day or two should make sure she’s ready to go.” 

Geralt sighed at that, eyes closing as he leaned more solidly against Eskel. Things were being planned, allies being called upon and favours being cashed in…and yet it still didn’t seem like enough, like Jaskier was still out of reach. 

“We’re gonna get him, Wolf,” Eskel murmured in his ear. “We’re gonna find him.” 

Geralt just kept his eyes closed, listening to the others discuss possible plans and ideas of where Nilfgaard might be holding Jaskier. He remained quiet though, unable to get the words out…not knowing how to talk so calmly about Jaskier being held captive when all it wanted to make him do was _break_ something, to rage and hunt down every last soldier of Nilfgaard until they gave him back his bard.

He just wanted Jaskier back, to have him back by his side again…to see that grin, large and carefree, to hear that bubbly, catching laugh, the lilting voice that was so filled with emotion, varying with the story Jaskier was telling and those blue eyes that sparkled with life and mischief – looking at him with adoration and…and _love_. 

Geralt would give anything – though not Ciri – to have Jaskier back, to see those eyes again, to have Jaskier in his arms, that adoring look directed at him, filling his chest with warmth, his usually slow heartbeat racing at the sight of Jaskier, the feel of him in his arms and the scent that was just so _Jaskier_. 

Geralt opened his eyes at that, trying not to frown as his heart skipped a beat, as a sudden thought came to mind, a realisation really, of why it hurt so much to be torn away from Jaskier, why he wanted the bard back so desperately. 

Swallowing harshly, Geralt pushed that thought away, trying to bury that realisation as he tried to focus on the conversation at hand.

After all he couldn’t…it just couldn’t be…

Jaskier drowsily lifted his head, blinking his eyes open slowly, yawning, as the door opened. Jon paused at the sight of Jaskier, sprawled on a heap of pillows that Jaskier had arranged in the beam of sunlight streaming through the windows and onto a warm patch on the floor. 

“You look comfortable,” Jon chuckled as he walked over, perching himself on a cushion on the edge of the nest Jaskier had made for himself, settled on the sun warmed fabric.

“S’nice,” Jaskier yawned, stretching out. “S’warm.” 

“For one that hangs out with someone nicknamed ‘White Wolf’, you are very catlike yourself,” Jon laughed, tilting his head as he looked to Jaskier, who languidly rolled onto his side so he could see Jon. Jon examined him for a moment, eyes fixing on the Witcher medallion Jaskier never took off, before musing, “Though, they always do say opposites attract.”

“Mm,” Jaskier just hummed in drowsy agreement. 

“Can I look at your leg, Jaskier?” Jon asked the warm and sleepy bard gently. “I think the stitches can come out.”

Jaskier nodded easily, shifting so he could push his pants down enough to reveal the wound on his thigh. Jon quickly got to work, deftly unwrapping the bandages before examining the wound. Content that it was healed, Jon made quick work of removing the stitches, before running a light finger across the newly formed scar. 

“You have a scar, but it’s healed perfectly,” Jon told him, shifting back so Jaskier could shimmy his pants back up. Jaskier was still wearing just loose, random pieces of Nilfgaardian clothes, like a pair of lounge pants and loose shirt. Jon had heard that Mererid had gotten a tailor in to measure Jaskier up for some outfits, on the Emperor’s orders of course.

“Speaking of scars,” Jon said slowly, carefully. “I had a thought about the ones on your back and I have some salve that will help if your muscles seize.”

Jaskier gave a slight wince, but shook his head, staring up towards the roof, the sunlight casting a beam across his face, highlighting his blue eyes. 

“It’s…it’s fine,” Jaskier murmured, turning his head slightly. Jon frowned at that, not quite believing it. With the amount of scars that Jaskier would have from the beating that Cahir had given him, then his back would surely seize or get tight every now and again from the amount of scar tissue he had. 

“How?” Jon asked him in disbelief. “That amount of scar tissue should give you some sort of tightness or issues.”

Jaskier rolled his head to the side to look at Jon, blue eyes unreadable, before he sighed, rolling onto his side, facing away from Jon.

“Just look,” Jaskier muttered. Jon’s frown deepened at that, but he carefully reached forward, fingers hesitating at the hem of Jaskier’s shirt.

“Is it okay if I pull your shirt up?” Jon questioned gently. Jaskier nodded, glancing over his shoulder to smile weakly at Jon.

“Yes…thank you.”

Jon nodded before he pulled the back of Jaskier’s shirt up, revealing his back. He froze at the sight of smooth, unmarred skin – save for two or three very, very faint scars across his back which looked to be years old.

“But…how?” Jon asked in amazement, running his fingers over the smooth skin and the faint, smooth scars. 

“Magic,” Jaskier answered quietly. “Guess that’s the best answer. Chaos. Magic. Whatever. Someone…someone wanted to help me, give me a chance to heal, and got rid of the physical reminders.”

“Huh,” Jon hummed curiously as he tugged Jaskier’s shirt back down, smoothing it down, before Jaskier rolled over to look at him again. “So, the scars on the bottom of your feet?”

“Gone too,” Jaskier confirmed. “They kept all of my other scars, the memories of my years on the Path with Geralt, but got rid of the majority of the ones I got from Cahir…except for a couple of the really deep ones.”

“They just made those look years old instead,” Jon said. Jaskier nodded. Jon just leaned back, still in amazement that magic, that Chaos, could do such a thing and so cleanly. Whoever had done this for Jaskier clearly cared a lot as even Jon knew that it would take a lot of Chaos, a lot of effort, to get rid of the scars so cleanly and so thoroughly. 

“I did wonder how you were walking so easily,” Jon mused as he settled down on the warm cushions again next to Jaskier. “It explains a lot of things.”

“Mmhmm,” Jaskier hummed tiredly, stretching out languidly in the warm sun once again. 

Jon shifted so he was laying down beside Jaskier, listening as Jaskier gave a tired laugh in response as he stretched out in the sun for himself. He sighed contently, glad to have a chance to just relax after a morning of doing rounds and checking on the medical side of things in the palace, and the soldiers who guarded it. Jon turned his head so he could meet Jaskier’s gaze. 

“So, I heard you spoke to the emperor again,” Jon stated carefully, watching Jaskier’s reaction.

“Yeah,” Jaskier sighed, folding his hands across his stomach and breathing in deeply. “Said I’m going to be his bard.”

“Well, it gives you something to do,” Jon said positively. Jaskier just sighed.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Jon looked at Jaskier again, hesitating. “I-Is there anything else you talked about? Anything that’s worrying you?”

Jaskier looked at him, blue eyes uncertain. He trusted Jon…to a degree. He trusted Jon wouldn’t physically hurt him and would do all that he could to keep Jaskier from harm – but at the same time, he knew Jon was loyal to Nilfgaard, to Emhyr. So how could he tell him of his worries? Of his fears for Ciri, knowing that Jon would relay every word he said about Ciri to the emperor.

“No,” Jaskier murmured finally, sighing as he closed his eyes. “Nothing else.”

Jon hummed, uncertain, but didn’t push, allowing Jaskier to just lay there, soaking up the warmth of the sun.

“Well,” Jon chuckled slightly from beside him, shifting slightly as he got more comfortable. “Hope you don’t mind that I stick around for a bit…this is really comfortable.”

Jaskier couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his lips when he heard that, hearing Jon’s content sigh as he settled down.

“Sure, stay as long as you like,” Jaskier laughed softly as he stretched slightly before curling up again, feeling warm and somewhat safe with Jon beside him, knowing Jon wouldn’t let anyone harm him while he was there.

He didn’t exactly trust Jon…but it didn’t mean that he didn’t like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm...I wonder what Geralt could be realising? (finally) :P
> 
> Leave a comment and give me your thoughts...cause I'm a sucker for comments 😋


	11. Stay Strong

Jon walked into his room, finding Cahir already sitting there, book in hand. 

“Make yourself comfortable,” Jon chuckled as he placed his satchel down, stretching out. Cahir closed the book, looking over Jon with a raised eyebrow as he took in the mussed curls and the somewhat bleary, yet sleep softened, gaze. 

“Looks like you’ve been working hard,” Cahir just answered in response, a teasing edge to his usually even tone, only one that Jon got to hear, seeing as he was Cahir’s oldest and most trusted friend. 

Jon laughed again as he settled down to sit beside Cahir on the couch, yawning as he stretched out again. 

“Spent some time with Jaskier,” Jon shrugged with a small smile. “He had made himself of pillows and blankets in a patch of sun…was quite comfortable really, couldn’t resist just dozing there with him for a while, especially since it looked like he needed the company.”

Cahir looked at Jon, eyebrows lifting incredulously as he repeated “Needed the company?” 

Jon sighed, shaking his head as he leaned forward, running a hand through his sleep mussed curls, trying to control them. 

“Jaskier was taken to the emperor’s quarters last night,” Jon explained quietly, watching as Cahir leaned forward with interest. “No guards to witness or watch as the emperor demanded a private conversation with him.”

“What’s so bad about that?”

“I’m not sure what was said,” Jon answered truthfully and a little uncertainly. “Jaskier did say that the emperor informed him that Jaskier would be taking up the role of court bard…but wouldn’t say anything more about what was said, about what was worrying him.” 

“And you are concerned that whatever Jaskier is keeping to himself will cause him some sort of anxiety or worry,” Cahir finished, knowing Jon far too well. 

Jon gave a sad smile and nodded once. “Yes,” he admitted with a low sigh. “I know he’s keeping something from me…but I also think that’s because he knows he can’t fully trust me because of who I am, who I’m loyal too.”

“And he wants to remain loyal to his own friends,” Cahir shrugged. “Annoying as Jaskier can be, you can’t deny that the bard is fiercely loyal.”

“Is that why he intrigues you so?” Jon asked curiously as he drew his legs up onto the couch, tucking them beside him as he settled back down. 

“Mmhm,” Cahir confirmed. “There’s just something about him. He’s just…just a _bard_ , so how did he manage to befriend a Witcher and stay by his side for years? Why did he, dressed so brightly and finely as he was, actually follow a Witcher through years of rough sleeping and dealing with monsters and their guts? Any other bard would have taken one look, tried it for a while, before their disgust would have driven them away, unable to deal with the Witcher and all of the disgust and rage that is aimed at him and their kind from others, and with the harsh, disgusting living conditions.”

“That’s true,” Jon hummed thoughtfully, having met many a bard over the years through the courts and through their travels. None of them would have stuck around with a Witcher for as long as Jaskier had, to deal with monsters and all of their entrails, and with the abuse that Jon had heard the Witcher had faced, being driven from towns, being spat on and abused.

Yet Jaskier had stayed by Geralt’s side through all of that, composing songs and ballads to help change public opinion of Witchers. 

He certainly was a curiosity, but Jon could see that despite all of his fancy and bright clothing, that Jaskier had a good heart and was loyal…which inspired loyalty to him in return.

“I went to check on his scars,” Jon spoke up matter-of-factly, getting Cahir’s undivided attention. “I thought that the scars that you left on him – ”

“ – as punishment,” Cahir interjected, making Jon roll his eyes.

“Yes, yes, whatever,” Jon muttered. “Anyway, as I was saying, I went to check on his scars because I thought they might give him trouble every now again with the whole scar tissue build up…but Jaskier told me something rather curious.”

“Which was?”

“He doesn’t have any,” Jon said, watching as Cahir’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I had to see for myself and he was right. There are no scars on his back…well, there are one or two faded ones, but they looked like they’d had years of healing behind them.”

“How is that possible?” Cahir asked curiously. “With the amount of lashings I gave him, and how hard I hit him, he should have been covered in them.”

“Apparently it was magic,” Jon answered with a small smile and shrug. “Someone with powerful capabilities was able to wield Chaos to heal Jaskier of these scars so he wouldn’t be left with a physical reminder.”

“Huh,” Cahir muttered, looking vaguely disappointed that Jaskier didn’t bear his scars. “Guess he does inspire loyalty as well.”

Jon nodded, running a hand through his curls absently. “Well, the Witcher and the mage came for him last time,” he said quietly, looking to Cahir. “Do you think they’ll come for him again?”

“If they figure out where Jaskier is being held, then yes, I believe they will,” Cahir said. “I don’t know how well it will end for them though. They cannot compare to the might of Nilfgaard’s army, especially in a stronghold such as Vizima. There are too many innocent Temerians living within Vizima, they cannot launch an attack on the city without killing innocent bystanders…and despite the rumours of Witchers being heartless and uncaring, I doubt even a Witcher would stoop so low to endanger innocents and allow them to be collateral damage.”

“Not the way Jaskier speaks of him,” Jon agreed with a low sigh. 

“Hoping for a rescue from them?” Cahir asked, gaining a sharp look from Jon.

“No,” Jon snapped before sighing again, shoulders slumping. “Not exactly? I mean, I know that our emperor needs Cirilla for our future…and I know we will get her, but at the same time…I just…I don’t want to see Jaskier spiral again, to lose all that he is. There aren't many people in this world like him.”

“Perhaps he can settle here,” Cahir suggested, though he knew it wasn’t truly possible. Jaskier was one that needed freedom, to not be tied down anywhere, to be caged. “He might find himself enjoying being the jewel of the court as the Royal Bard.”

“Perhaps…but I doubt it,” the medic muttered. “Jaskier needs to explore, to surround himself with people he cares for.”

“Mm,” Cahir hummed in agreement before shrugging. “There is nothing we can do, Jon. Jaskier has a role here now, to ensure Cirilla is surrendered to Nilfgaard, and our Imperial Majesty has decreed that Jaskier is to be court bard. There is nothing more to it, Jon.”

Jon nodded slightly, sadly, at Cahir’s warning tone, knowing the commander was correct. He was concerned for Jaskier, but despite being there for him and supporting the fearful bard when he surely began to spiral or panic when he truly felt how trapped he was, there was nothing that Jon could do for him…not without betraying his emperor, without betraying Nilfgaard, his home.

Jaskier paced around his lavish cell, feeling restless. He paused for a moment, glancing at the books on his bedside table which Jon had brought him before he snorted and shook his head, beginning his endless pacing again.

He wasn’t bored enough yet to want to read about Nilfgaard’s history and fables. 

Jaskier stopped as the door opened, watching as Mererid walked in, carrying a case, before stiffening as Cahir followed him into the room. 

“Our Imperial Majesty wished for me to deliver this to you,” Mererid explained as he set the case down on the bed. Jaskier looked to Cahir, who had just settled himself down on the couch and was watching Jaskier intently in return.

Ignoring Cahir the best he could, Jaskier turned to see what Mererid brought him, walking over to the bed. His heart skipped a beat at the familiar shape of the case.

“I-Is that…?” Jaskier questioned, hesitantly reaching towards the case before drawing his hand back.

“Yes, the lute…as the gentleman needed for his role of court bard,” Mererid answered with the smallest of smiles as he opened up the lute case for Jaskier to inspect the instrument. Jaskier stepped closer to the bed, looking at the lute lying within the case. 

It wasn’t as nice as his one, with his being of Elvish design and make…but this one was fairly nice. The wood was stained a sleek, deep brown, with golden floral markings etched into the dark wood. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier said finally as he glanced to Mererid. “I-It is a rather exquisite instrument.”

“Good. Our Imperial Majesty will be pleased to hear,” Mererid said, pleased. “You will bring it for your meeting with the emperor tomorrow.”

Jaskier blinked in surprise at that, but gave a small nod in reply. Mererid nodded in return before he turned and swept from the room, shooting Cahir a warning look as he went by. Cahir just inclined his head in reply before turning his attention back to Jaskier, who kept his back to Cahir, instead focusing on the instrument.

“Well,” Cahir drawled after a while, watching as Jaskier flinched, back going rigid. “Give it a go and get a feel for it.” 

Jaskier barely kept back a shudder at Cahir’s drawl. Drawing a deep breath, Jaskier tried to remain calm, taking out the instrument and settling down on the bed with the lute in his lap, still trying to keep as much distance between him and Cahir. The Nilfgaardian Commander was still sitting on the couch, looking like he owned the room, as he stared at Jaskier. 

Jaskier took in another deep breath as he plucked a few chords on the lute, frowning slightly before he shifted to tune the instrument until it sounded as it should. 

Once he was content with how it sounded, Jaskier moved onto playing some pieces of music that knew, ones that didn’t require him to sing along to it…not in the mood for singing to Cahir. 

He lost himself in the music, fingers moving from memory and by many years of playing and composing. Playing music, getting lost with the rhythm of it, within the story of each piece, allowed him to forget where he was…just losing himself in the music. 

He was startled from the music as the bed beside him dipped. Jaskier looked up, fingers pausing on the strings, to see Cahir sitting beside him, cool blue eyes fixed firmly on Jaskier’s face. 

“Such talent,” Cahir murmured as he stared at Jaskier. “You truly will shine in Nilfgaard’s courts.” 

Jaskier shivered, hands moving to hold the instrument more securely to his chest, as though it would protect him from Cahir’s unnerving, unwavering gaze. Jaskier stiffened as he stared back at Cahir, waiting for him to make the slightest move so he could react, body poised to leap up and dart away – knowing he couldn’t fight back or brawl against Cahir here, not in Nilfgaardian territory. 

Instead Cahir just hummed, leaning back slightly so he could regard Jaskier better. “You intrigue me, Jaskier.”

“So you’ve said,” Jaskier responded bitterly, looking down at the shining surface of his new lute. 

“It’s true,” Cahir shrugged. “Yet I still can’t seem to figure you out. You act as though you’re a prim and flashy bard, yet you can hold your own against Nilfgaardian soldiers -trained soldiers mind you -, and even kill two of them. You dress in the finest, brightest clothing, yet you’re happy to sleep out in the woods or in barns, and get involved with the whole monster hunting thing.” 

Jaskier gave a low scoff at that. Oh, if only Cahir knew how involved he got with the monster hunting thing. Sure, Geralt kept him away from the main fight and Jaskier did try to stay away from the corpses afterwards because they were usually coated in its own blood and innards…but there were times that he helped Geralt to take the monster trophy, when Geralt was too wounded or exhausted to do so. He knew how to get the right trophy from a Nekker, from a griffin and a forktail, amongst other things. 

“You’re a contradiction wrapped in an enigma, Jaskier,” Cahir chuckled, shaking his head. “I think I’ve got one part of you figured out, yet something else about you contradicts that…but I’ll figure you out.”

Jaskier scoffed again, shaking his head, muttering, “Have fun then."

“Oh I will,” Cahir drawled as he leaned closer to Jaskier, who leaned away. “We do have time after all. So much time…especially since I don’t believe that your Witcher will give up Cirilla.”

“Who says he knows where she is?” Jaskier snapped back. Cahir laughed at that, shaking his head as he stared at Jaskier in admonishment.

“Do you truly think we’d believe that, Jaskier?” Cahir asked. “If you truly didn’t know, you wouldn’t be so tight-lipped. Last time you _truly_ didn’t know, showing confusion and whatnot, but this time you have fear flash through your eyes every time we mention Cirilla as though you fear you will give something away, betray her location.”

Jaskier turned his head away at that, focusing on the lute in his hands and swallowing deeply, not wanting Cahir to see how much that rattled him. Jaskier knew that sometimes his mouth disconnected from his brain and just kind of…ran rampant and he blurted out many a thing, usually when he was insulting someone and didn’t think of the ramifications or consequences of doing so – but he feared doing it here. He feared getting caught up in an argument or something and just accidentally blurting out something about Ciri that would endanger her.

He’d never forgive himself if he put her in danger, if he got her caught. 

Cahir just smirked as he watched the emotions flood across Jaskier’s face, knowing the bard was deep in thought, thinking of Cirilla. 

It was only a matter of time before he slipped up in a moment of anger or annoyance or defence really, but Cahir knew it would happen, it would only take the right situation to get Jaskier to blurt something out…but he also knew that Jaskier would deeply regret it and it would cause some sort of mental and emotion distress to the impassioned bard.

Cahir glanced up when he heard the door open, followed by a sigh. Jon was staring at him, looking unimpressed as he looked from Cahir to Jaskier pointedly. Cahir just returned the unimpressed stare with a questioning arched eyebrow of his own. The medic rolled his eyes as he walked further into the room, seeing Jaskier was partially hunched over the lute in his arms, blue eyes a little lost and wild as he lifted his head to look at Jon, silently begging for his intervention.

“I need to talk to my patient, Commander,” Jon told Cahir firmly, who sighed but nodded, knowing Jon was in full healer mode now. 

“I’ll talk to you later, Jon,” Cahir said, letting Jon know that he wanted to hear what happened. “Until next time, Jaskier.”

Jaskier shuddered, and with one last warning look from Jon, Cahir turned to leave the room. Once he was gone, Jon turned to Jaskier, sighing as he looked over the hunched over bard, knowing that, as usual, he’d have to comfort Jaskier after Cahir’s visit and the usual emotion upheaval that that caused. 

Jon sat down on the bed beside Jaskier, giving the bard time to settle himself. 

Jaskier’s heart raced in his chest, as it always did when he was forced to be near Cahir, remembering the pain that the man had put him through. Once he was sure that he’d be able to speak evenly, he lifted his head to look to Jon, who was sitting beside him and waiting patiently. 

“Are you okay?” Jon asked gently once he saw Jaskier looking at him. Jaskier swallowed, unsure of what to say, so he turned instead to place the lute in the case carefully, not trusting his shaking hands to be able to hold onto the instrument and not wanting to accidentally drop it. Jaskier turned back once the lute was securely tucked away, absently reaching up to grab at the medallion around his neck – a move that Jon caught and made him sigh quietly. 

“Jaskier?” Jon pushed. “I know something’s troubling you. You grab onto the medallion when you’re worried or scared or troubled.”

Jaskier shivered, heart racing in his chest again. He didn’t know how to explain it, what to say. There was so much to be fearful of. He didn’t know what his future held, if he would live once Emhyr’s patience wore thin, what would happen if Emhyr got his hands on Ciri. So much uncertainty and Cahir didn’t make things easier with his weird intrigue…and Emhyr wanted to see him again privately. 

Jaskier used to love being the centre of attention, all eyes on him as he danced about, singing…but now…

“I’d give anything not to be noticed,” Jaskier whispered, voice breaking somewhat as he looked to Jon, who just look confused. “I-I used to love being noticed, being the centre of attention, but now…now I’d give anything to just fade into the background, to not be noticed.”

All he needed was to be with Geralt, Jaskier thought by didn’t say. Geralt never wanted anything from him, just his company.

“What do you mean?” Jon asked gently. “What brought this on?”

“Everyone wants something from me, has an _interest_ in me,” Jaskier muttered. “The emperor knows he can use me, which makes me useful, _interesting_ , to him…and Cahir has this weird, creepy intrigued _obsession_ with me…and for once I just don’t want to be noticed! I just want to be me, to just be with Geralt and not need to care about anyone or anything else.”

“Because with Geralt there’s no secondary motive, right?” Jon asked, understanding what Jaskier was trying to say. “He doesn’t demand anything from you, what you give is of your own free will, and he lets you be your own person, gives you your space.”

Jaskier blinked in surprise at that, looking to Jon. He hadn’t expected Jon to understand so quickly…or understand what he was saying really. Jon just smiled sadly at him.

“I get it, Jaskier,” Jon murmured, shaking his head slightly and causing his red curls to bounce. “Just wishing you could fade into the background and not be noticed, yet it’s not to be. You get noticed and your life is turned upside down…but, at the moment, Jaskier, it’s best just to be as strong as you can, to not fear, to get past this.”

“How?” Jaskier asked desperately. “How do I do that?!”

Jon shook his head sadly. “Try not to let them get to you. When you let them get to you…that’s when you break. You need to stay hopeful, Jaskier. If I learnt anything from the last time, when your Witcher and mage came for you, is that your friends won’t give up on you…so don’t give up on them.”

Jaskier just stared at Jon with disbelief and shock. Though Jon was loyal to Nilfgaard, it sounded like he fully expected Jaskier to be rescued by Geralt from Nilfgaard’s clutches…and it sounded like Jon truly wanted to see that happen. 

“Y-You sound like you know how it is,” Jaskier managed to croak out instead, unsure of what to think of what Jon's motives were, where his loyalties lay. Jon gave a small nod.

“Yes,” Jon muttered bitterly. “I gained the attention of the Usurper…and it’s something I’ll never be able to forget. He offered me a deal; me for the safety of others.”

“You couldn’t refuse,” Jaskier said softly, horrified at the thought of what Jon could have gone through.

“No,” Jon sighed heavily, giving Jaskier a weak smile. “No, I couldn’t put myself before the safety of others, which is why I understand _you_ so well. Despite your fears, despite knowing you could barter your freedom for Cirilla’s location, you wouldn’t do it. You couldn’t put yourself over someone else, over someone you care for.” 

“No,” Jaskier whispered in agreement. “No, I couldn’t.”

Jon smiled sadly at him again, completely understanding. “I will try to keep Cahir away from you when I can, but he still outranks me. Just try not to react to him, a reaction gets his interest even more.”

“Still doesn’t make it easier,” Jaskier sighed, laying back on top of the bed, folding his hands on top of his stomach.

“No,” Jon mused. “It doesn’t…but it gets easier to fake with time, to pretend it doesn’t bother you. You just can’t let it break you, Jaskier. You need to be stronger, mentally and emotionally, then they are, to not allow them to break you.” 

Jaskier sighed heavily again, staring up at the canopy above his bed. 

“I’ll try, Jon,” he murmured, knowing that it would be a difficult task. “I’ll try.”

“Just have faith in your Witcher, Jaskier,” Jon said as he also shifted to lay on his back on the bed beside Jaskier, with the lute case wedged tightly between them. 

“How’d you stay strong?” Jaskier asked suddenly, turning his head so he could look at Jon. “With everything that was going on with the Usurper, how did you just not, you know, break and end it all?”

Jon frowned for a moment, considering his words carefully. “I knew that if I tried to run, to escape, that he’d just choose another to suffer in my place. It was hard to stay positive, to keep going, especially since it was his goal to break me down…but I knew it was something I had to do, to keep my men safe.” Jon paused for a moment, looking to Jaskier and meeting his gaze. “I also had Cahir to keep me sane,” he said, much to Jaskier’s shock. “He was one of the ones I was protecting from the Usurper’s attention and he was one of the only true friends I had. He was there to bring me back to the infirmary every time, to help treat my wounds and stayed by my side afterwards.”

“Huh,” Jaskier murmured, looking back towards the canopy. 

“Mm,” Jon hummed in agreement. “The Cahir you know is different from the Cahir I know. I’ve known Cahir a long time, we’ve been through literal hell together, and it did change him…changed both of us.”

“He’s still a creep.”

Jon couldn’t help the small chuckle at Jaskier’s blunt statement. “Well, yes, I can see why you see that. He is rather intrigued with you. To him you’re a puzzle he can’t figure out, which isn’t normal for him. He has a rather sharp mind.”

“Still doesn’t make him any less of a creep,” Jaskier retorted, getting another chuckle from Jon. 

“I will try to keep him away,” Jon promised, “but he’s also acting under orders from our Imperial Majesty, to try and get you to talk.”

Jaskier hummed in understanding, but didn’t reply to that. What use was it saying he wouldn’t talk when they already knew that? 

“Just keep your spark, Jaskier,” Jon spoke up a few moments later. “If you keep your spark, you’ve already won.” 

Jaskier sighed, reaching up to grab the medallion again, fingers absently tracing the wolf etching as he thought of Geralt. Despite everything the world threw at him, Geralt always remained strong, especially when he was facing those who wished him ill. The only time Jaskier had ever seen Geralt vulnerable was when they were at Kaer Morhen or if it was just the two of them together, locked in the room at the inn or at their camp – the only time that Geralt could show that he was injured and in pain, even if tried to keep up the façade that he was okay, just so he didn’t worry Jaskier…even though Jaskier worried about him not matter what. 

Tracing the medallion, feeling that familiar etching, did give Jaskier strength…because he imagined Geralt every time he grabbed it, knowing Geralt had worn this medallion through hell and back, through monster hunts and fighting for his life against mercenaries and bandits…and he survived. To Jaskier, every time he grabbed the medallion, it felt like Geralt was there, giving him the strength to keep fighting, to keep going on. 

For Geralt, for Ciri, for Yennefer, Lambert and Eskel and Vesemir, he would keep fighting…for as long as he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more insight into Jon :) ...and a different look at Cahir...
> 
> Thanks for all of the comments, everyone, really makes my day! Let me know what you think 'cause I'm a sucker for comments :P


	12. Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler Warning:  
> For those who don't know what Emhyr's original plans concerning Ciri was...well, it's revealed further down and it's a bit disturbing.

Jaskier clutched his new lute tighter to his chest as he was led down by the halls by the guards. Mererid had come striding into his room, followed by his usual retinue of staff, which made Jaskier sigh slightly, knowing he was about to bathed and scrubbed down way too thoroughly. 

Mererid had also been looking pleased, almost shaking with excitement – which had Jaskier worried, uncertain why Mererid was looking so pleased with himself.

He had soon found out, once he had gotten out of the bath and harshly dried off despite his grumblings that he could dry himself, which of course had been ignored, when Mererid had presented him with his new wardrobe which had just been finished. 

Most of the clothes had been quickly tucked away, somewhere where Jaskier wouldn’t be able to get them, and only available to him when he was allowed out of his room and would be seen by other Nilfgaardians and the emperor himself. 

Mererid had presented the outfit to him and Jaskier had to admit he was surprised by it. The doublet was finely made, a nice, deep red colour with gold and black embroidery decorating the fabric, the embroidery design a mixture of flowers and vines, with black stripes on the puffy sleeves. The pants were a fitted black pair, made of soft, but durable, material with red and gold vine and flower embroidery up the sides of the legs. A soft white chemise with a laced edge was presented to go underneath it. 

“Colour was recommended for the gentleman,” Mererid said as he watched on as Jaskier was dressed by deft hands. “No colour too garish of course, but still, there is colour for you.”

“It’s…it’s nice,” Jaskier admitted softly, before frowning and swatting away the hands that tried to do the buttons right up his neck. “Can’t sing when it’s done all the way up.”

Mererid waved away the dresser, who had looked at him to make Jaskier comply. The doublet was done up enough that it was respectable, up to the bard’s clavicle, revealing just the smallest hint of chest hair out of low v cut chemise which was noticeable through the slightly open doublet. 

“It is fine,” Mererid told the grouchy dresser, who threw a displeased look at the undone buttons. “It suits the gentleman.”

Jaskier smiled weakly at him, unable to stop it, gaining a small smile and a nod in return from Mererid.

“The gentleman is not one of the Lords of the Court, not made to be dressed in stiff, high collar doublets,” Mererid continued, surprising Jaskier. “He is a bard, our new Royal Bard, and his outfit reflects that.” 

The dressers stepped back once they finished. Jaskier sighed, looking down at his outfit and brushing his hands down the soft, silky, expensive material. He tugged at the hem of the doublet and rolled his shoulders, shifting slightly until the doublet felt like it was sitting right. 

“Boots on and let’s go,” Mererid directed. “We should not keep the emperor waiting.”

Jaskier quickly moved to pull on the boots, with the shoes slipping easily over the bottom of the fitted pants, coming up to under his knees. Grabbing his lute at Mererid’s pointed glance, Jaskier straightened up, clutching the lute close to his chest. 

“Come now,” Mererid said as he turned on his heel and stalked towards the door, leaving Jaskier to follow him.

A small squad of guards had been waiting for him and Mererid and had been quick to surround him, making sure he followed Mererid down the hallways.

So now he was here, surrounded by guards as he followed Mererid in the direction of Emhyr’s office – relieved that they weren’t heading towards Emhyr’s private quarters again.  
Mererid knocked on the door curtly three times before entering. Jaskier swallowed as a guard pushed his shoulder, making Jaskier move into the office. Jaskier took the chance to glance around the large, cavernous office truly for the first time – since he hadn’t exactly been focused on it when he had first been brought in here, more focused on and shocked by the fact that he was a prisoner of Nilfgaard again and that Duny actually wasn’t dead, was actually the Emperor of Nilfgaard and had been the one to put the bounty out on Jaskier. 

The office was rather large, with a small alcove off to the side of the room. A table with chairs was situated within it, set in front of a window. Bookshelves lined the walls, leading to the desk that sat towards the back of the large, situated right in the middle. 

Emhyr was sitting behind it, as usual, hands clasped together upon it as the light streaming in the large window behind him cast him in shadow. Emhyr looked Jaskier up and down as Jaskier approached, eyeing off the outfit Jaskier was wearing. 

“Very nice,” Emhyr said finally as he gestured for Jaskier to sit in the lone chair across from the desk. “You outdid yourself, Mererid. Good design choices.” 

Mererid bowed low, hiding his pleased expression. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Now leave us,” Emhyr ordered Mererid and the guards. They all bowed before leaving. Jaskier shifted the lute in his lap, which caught Emhyr’s sharp gaze.

“Ah, yes, your new lute,” Emhyr mused as he stared at the instrument. “Is it to your liking?”

“It is a rather exquisite instrument, thank you,” Jaskier said quietly, glancing down at the lute and absently tracing over the carving in the wood. 

“Good,” Emhyr said. “The Royal Bard should only have the best, especially in my court.” 

Jaskier didn’t know how to respond to that, just shuffling awkwardly in his seat. He cast his gaze around the office, just so he didn’t need to look at Emhyr - who was still staring at him intently – when his gaze landed on a portrait hung on the wall, above the fireplace inset into the stone wall. 

He blinked, not quite believing it as he stared upon the portrait of a young blonde girl, perhaps two years old, pouting heavily and looking displeased at the pink and white frilly dress she had been forced into.

“Is that…?” Jaskier whispered, staring at the portrait. Emhyr glanced at it and hummed.

“Yes,” he sighed. “My Cirilla. One of my soldiers recovered it from Cintra and brought it here. I still remember when this was painted. She was not pleased that her mother made her wear that dress…and she had to try and stay in the same spot for the painter to do his job, not an easy task for an active child.”

Jaskier frowned slightly as he looked upon it. If he remembered right, then it wasn’t long after this painting was done that Emhyr faked his death…and Pavetta was killed. Ciri had only been about two or three when that had happened. 

“You seem to care for her,” Jaskier stated as he looked back to Emhyr, who just stared back, waiting for Jaskier to finish. “But there’s something more to _all_ of this. If you just wanted to take back Nilfgaard, you could have gotten Calanthe’s support – I have no doubt that she would have loved the opportunity to go up against Nilfgaard. Why fake your death? Why come after Ciri now?”

Emhyr stood up suddenly, startling Jaskier, but he ignored the bard as he paced the room.

“Calanthe would have leapt on the chance if she learnt the truth that I was the true heir to Nilfgaard,” Emhyr admitted, stopping in front of the window and staring out over Vizima, though not quite taking anything in. “Calanthe loved to prove her fight, her mettle, and she would have been there to take on Nilfgaard…but it would have come at a price. She would have been the one to rule Nilfgaard, she wouldn’t have allowed me to do so; it was not in her nature to allow others to have power when she could have it.”

Jaskier just stared at the emperor’s back, shocked by all of this. 

“But why fake your death then?” Jaskier croaked. “Why allow Ciri to believe you were dead for _years_ before sending your armies after her?”

He stared at Emhyr’s back, the emperor standing still and silent, hands clasped behind his back.

“There was a prophecy,” Emhyr said finally, turning his head slightly. “One that was told to me after Cirilla’s birth.”

“What prophecy?” Jaskier asked, shocked, leaning forward slightly with nervous anticipation. 

Emhyr shook his head. “Most of it is…unimportant,” he muttered. “But the most important part of it, was that Cirilla’s offspring would be powerful, important, would practically rule the world. Calanthe would have never allowed it…but I need to secure Nilfgaard’s future.”

Jaskier just stared, horrified, a cold chill making its way down his spine, making him freeze. 

Emhyr couldn’t be talking about what Jaskier thought he was talking about…he just couldn’t!”

“W-What do you mean?” Jaskier managed to breathe out. “What do you want with Ciri, truly?” 

Emhyr turned finally to face Jaskier, brown eyes cool as always. 

“Cirilla’s child is Nilfgaard’s legacy…and it needs to be _my_ legacy,” Emhyr stated, watching as Jaskier paled, blue eyes going wide with a range of emotions flashing through them. “The child cannot be one of common birth, fathered by some _nobody_. The child needs to be mine.”

“She’s your **daughter**!” Jaskier managed to hiss out, the cold horror being replaced by a burning rage. “She’s just a child!”

Jaskier was shaking in his chair, rage bubbling through him at the thought of Ciri, his sweet, innocent girl, being targeted by this monster…not because he was a father who missed his daughter, who wanted her back, but because he needed her so he could use her body.

“She’s at the age where Calanthe would have started to search for potential candidates, to find her a suitable husband for political gain,” Emhyr said uncaringly as he sat back down. 

“I don’t give a fuck what Calanthe would have been doing!” Jaskier snarled, blue eyes flashing, as his hands tightened around the lute. “She’s a **child**!”

“She is a teenager. She is a princess,” Emhyr stated. “She is royalty and she has a role to play in this life. It would not be done right away of course, another year or two perhaps, once she gets used to her role in Nilfgaard.”

“Fuck that!” Jaskier snapped, unable to hold back the rage and anger any further. “Do you know how much she struggled after Cintra fell? Do you know what she learnt about her dearly beloved Grandmother and all the atrocities that Calanthe committed? Ciri was sheltered for her whole life, until you came along and murdered all of her family, forcing her to run for her life, trying to stay alive from those wanting to use her, to hurt her!”

Emhyr just stared at Jaskier, listening intently to the ramble, though his brown eyes grew colder. 

“Ciri found out the person the people _truly_ saw Calanthe as, the bloodthirsty and merciless ruler, murderer of non-humans…and you have no idea how much that sweet girl fears becoming her grandmother,” Jaskier continued on, unable to stop, still shaking with anger. “Ciri is just beginning to discover who she is, who she can **be** , without her future being written for her!”

“Ah,” Emhyr drawled finally, looking pleased. “So you _do_ know where she is.”

Jaskier froze at that before shaking his head, glaring at Emhyr. “You already knew I did,” he spat. “But it doesn’t matter because I will _not_ tell you anything to give away her location, to betray her! I will not let you hurt her in such a way and destroy the sweet girl, the sweet child she is! I will not let you ruin all of the progress she has made, to destroy the confidence she has in herself, in her future!”

Emhyr’s eyes almost turned to ice at that. 

“She is my daughter.”

Jaskier shook his head, gritting his teeth together. “If you get her, she will fight you…and she has killed before when she was scared. She will kill you before you even touch her.”

“Not if your safety is at stake,” Emhyr countered.

Jaskier lifted his head to determinedly and defiantly meet Emhyr’s gaze. “I would rather **die** first before I allow you to harm her!”

Emhyr frowned at that, leaning back as he regarded Jaskier, who was trembling with rage, fingers wrapped white-knuckled around the lute, looking like he was barely holding back from leaping to his feet and screaming at Emhyr or attacking him.

“If you truly care for your daughter, if you _ever_ loved Pavetta, then you won’t do this to Ciri,” Jaskier spoke up later, voice shaking. “She’s already suffered so much…if she found out that her father was alive and murdered her family because he wanted her to bear his children…it would _destroy_ her.”

Emhyr shook his head, looking uncaring. “She will learn her place in Nilfgaard’s future, she will learn of her true destiny. In time she will see that I just want the best for Nilfgaard, for her.”

Jaskier shook his head, disgusted. “You’re definitely not the man I once knew,” he muttered disgustedly. “Duny loved his daughter, doted upon her and would never allow anyone to harm her. Fuck this prophecy! She’s your daughter…and if you do this to her, she will never see you as her father, she will _never_ love you! She will _loathe_ you, fight against you…if she doesn’t kill you first. You’ll not be her father, just some monster!” Jaskier snarled at the end. “That’s all you will be to her, some fucked up monster who faked his death and who murdered her family!”

“Still a better choice than that Witcher,” Emhyr spat, which just made Jaskier snarl under his breath. “What could he, an emotionless monster killer, be to her?”

“A father figure,” Jaskier snapped back. Emhyr’s lips pressed thin at that, eyes darkening. “He’s the one she goes to when she’s feeling scared because of _you_. She trusts him to keep her safe. He’s the one she looks up to, the one who’s praise and pride she seeks – which he _always_ gives her. Geralt is the one encouraging her, getting her back on her feet, giving her the confidence she needs. So, yeah, she gets an _actual_ father from him.”

Anger flashed in Emhyr’s eyes, fists clenching against the table, even as he took in a breath, looking a hairsbreadth away from ordering the bard beaten or killed and looking like he was trying to control himself from strangling Jaskier himself.

“Get out,” he snarled at the furious bard. Jaskier got to his feet, glaring back.

“Gladly,” he spat back.

“Leave the lute,” Emhyr snapped at him as Jaskier went to leave. “Your sharp tongue has lost you your entertainment privileges.”

Jaskier just sneered, placing the lute down albeit a bit roughly and leaning it against the desk.

“Fine.”

“Out.”

Jaskier turned on heel, stalking out of the room and past the startled guards at the door, who stared at him, shocked and angry, before his own personal goon squad scrambled to push themselves off the wall they had been leaning against, hurrying after him. 

Jaskier paid them no attention, a mixture of horror and rage just flooding through him, even as he stalked into his comfortable cell, slamming the wooden door in the guards’ faces. 

The enraged bard stalked from one side of the room to the other, muttering under his breath as his hands trembled with rage by his side, even as he clenched them into fists and unclenched them again. 

He didn’t know how Emhyr could such a sick bastard, to want to do that to his own daughter?! 

Jaskier’s heart raced, thumping hard against his chest as he paced, unable to calm, feeling anger and horror and disgust and fear, all of the emotions winding and twisting, feeling like it was crushing his chest, stealing the breath from his lungs.

His thoughts kept coming to Ciri, his sweet, innocent Ciri – seeing her beautiful green eyes filled with light, her mischievous smile, the way she ran to Geralt to tell him excitedly about everything Vesemir had taught her before grabbing his hand and dragging the bewildered, but soft-eyed, Witcher to the training yard so she could show him everything she had learnt. 

Jaskier wrapped his arms around his trembling body, feeling like he was going to be sick, remembering how Ciri always, _always_ came to him when she need hugs and comfort.

He imagined all that Ciri was, all that new light and confidence that she had come to earn for herself, doing her best to overcome all of the horrors she had faced, to forge herself a future that she chooses, not one that was chosen for her because of her birth – he barely kept from gagging as he imagined all of that being wiped away, that sweet girl being broken down and defeated, losing all that she was, especially when she learnt that her father was alive, that he was the one who ordered the destruction of Cintra, the death of her family, and that he was the one who ordered her to be hunted down so he could impregnate her on the words of some fucked up prophecy.

“Fuck,” Jaskier whispered hoarsely, body trembling with rage against Emhyr and fear for his sweet Ciri. Jaskier collapsed to his knees, shaking hands pulling at his hair. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

He couldn’t let Emhyr get his hands on Ciri, couldn’t let him destroy the sweetest girl he knew. He couldn’t let Emhyr use him for that purpose, to try and get Ciri and then use Jaskier to make her comply, to make her behave. 

Jaskier scrambled to the chamber pot, throwing up what was in his stomach, unable to keep it down as he thought of being responsible for Ciri complying to Emhyr’s demands, just to protect him. 

Once he had emptied his stomach, Jaskier slumped back against the wall, burying his clammy face into his hands.

He had to get out of here. He had to warn Geralt. 

They had to protect Ciri.

Emhyr watched as Jaskier stormed from his office, frowning heavily. He waved away the concerned and bewildered Mererid – who had apparently been told of raised, angry voices in his office, along with the bard storming out – before ordering him to make sure he wasn’t disturbed. Mererid had nodded, looking uncertain, but did as he was ordered.

Once he was alone, Emhyr leaned back in his chair, exhaling heavily as Jaskier’s angry, snarled words echoed through his mind.

_Monster. Monster. Monster._

Emhyr shook his head, shoving those thoughts away. He was the Emperor of Nilfgaard, he had to do what he must to ensure Nilfgaard’s survival, to cement his family line as Nilfgaard’s rulers – knowing all too well that others already lurked, planning to take over in the background.

Still, doubt crept in…especially as he recalled Jaskier’s words about the Witcher being a father figure to Ciri, imagining his daughter’s green eyes seeking the Witcher’s approval, seeking his love. Jaskier had said that Ciri went to Geralt for reassurance, that Geralt offered her support and comfort when she needed it. 

Emhyr would deny that jealously coursed through his veins at the thought of his daughter loving the Witcher as a father and at the thought of the Witcher claiming his daughter as the Witcher’s own. 

He had imagined many a time what he would say to her when she was finally brought to him, imagined the different emotions on her face when he revealed to her that he was her father, that he had had to fake his own death. Some times he saw disgust, anger, hate...other times he imagined that she would understand in the end, knowing he did this to save Nilfgaard, to secure the throne for her and her offspring...but he truly had no idea how she would react.

_Monster. Monster. Monster._

Swallowing deeply, Emhyr sat up, leaning forward to grab something from his stack of paperwork and decrees. He needed to stop thinking about the Witcher and his daughter, to not allow his feelings to cloud his judgement.

Later, he decided, once he had calmed, then he would consider the best move for Nilfgaard and its future…and how Cirilla would be involved within it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that's shorter than usual, but that was difficult to write...and I didn't want to muddle that revelation/blow up with any other story lines.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	13. Realisation

Jaskier paced across the length of the room and then back again, over and over. He hadn’t had any contact with anyone since his meeting with Emhyr yesterday, even those who brought his meals just dropped them and left with not a word spoken to him. 

He didn’t have a lute to distract him…and he still wasn’t desperate enough to read the Nilfgaardian books. So here he was, pacing back and forth. He’d worked out it was thirty strides from one side of the room to the other…with a few more steps thrown in if he went around the couch instead of going the straight path. 

Jaskier had been pacing for most of the day, trying to figure out some way to get out of this hell hole. The door was locked when he was within the room, and there were always guards outside the door – so that wasn’t really an option there. Pausing, Jaskier turned to one of the large windows, considering it once again. Jaskier walked over to the window, kneeling upon the cushioned window seat in front of it and pushed the window open, peering out and down of the window. Soldiers paced the courtyard below, doing some sort of training drills here and there, but Jaskier ignored them, trying to gauge the distance to the ground. He glanced back at the bed thoughtfully before shaking his head with a huff.  
Even if he used his bedsheets, tying them together to make a rope, he’d still be far off the ground. 

If he tried to climb down from here, it was either death or severely broken legs. If he used to sheets to assist him, if he dropped down the distance, he’d still probably break both of his legs rather badly…and the soldiers would probably spot him, since Jaskier had noted through his sleepless nights that they were always out in the courtyard, on guard. 

Growling under his breath, Jaskier grabbed the window, slamming it closed before he got up to resume his agitated pacing. 

He had to find a way out! 

Jaskier spun to look at the door when it opened, swallowing when he saw Mererid there, a somewhat grim expression on his face, and flanked by a smirking Nilfgaardian Captain dressed in full armour.

“Mererid,” Jaskier said slowly, carefully as he glanced at the captain. “Something wrong?”

Mererid glanced at the captain before straightening up, looking back to Jaskier with a dismayed expression on his face. “Our Imperial Majesty has expressed… _displeasure_ with your last conversation and has ordered that you are to be instructed in army drills, relaying that that should curb your tongue, being far too tired to snark back at our Imperial Majesty.”

“Ah,” Jaskier muttered, though he was slightly confused by that. Out of all the punishments that Emhyr could have given him, that wasn’t one that Jaskier had been expecting. He was expecting a lashing or something, not this. 

“Your clothing is fine for this. Get your boots on,” Mererid ordered, eyeing off Jaskier’s plain black clothing, not one of the outfits that had been tailored for him. Jaskier nodded, sighing, knowing he couldn’t get out of this…knowing the punishment for refusing would be worse.

Besides, this could be a good opportunity to try and figure out a way to escape. Jaskier pulled on his boots before pausing, feeling the medallion rest heavily on his chest. Swallowing deeply, Jaskier grabbed the medallion, hesitating slightly before he tucked it securely beneath his shirt, feeling the slightly chilled metal of the medallion resting against the warm skin of his chest, resting upon the hairs there.

Breathing in, Jaskier stood up, fixing a grin on his face, trying to appear unbothered and uncaring with this turn of events. 

“So?” he chirped, faux cheerfully. “Shall we get this over with?”

The captain smirked as he looked over Jaskier as Mererid sighed and gave a small shake of his head. Jaskier stepped out the room, glancing around to see his usual squad of guards waiting to escort him. 

His heart was racing in his chest, but Jaskier didn’t let them see that he was worried or fearful, taking Jon’s advice to hear. If they knew he was fearful, they’d use it against him…and Jaskier wouldn’t let them win. 

He had to be strong enough to get out of here.

Jaskier followed the captain, keeping his footsteps light and facial expression calm and unbothered, smiling slightly as he looked around subtly, taking note of guards lining the halls, on guard duty. He tried to keep track of the halls they were walking down, taking notice of the different doors and trying to glance to see where they may lead. 

He breathed in deeply, taking in the warm, fresh air as soon as they stepped outside. Tilting his head back, he briefly took in the deep blue sky before he straightened up, glancing about the courtyard placed at the back of the palace. There was a patch of green grass and kept garden beds, but just beyond that there was the training grounds with the guards barracks tucked into the back corner. 

His heart dropped at the amount of soldiers milling about…and at the high walls surrounding the palace, and the heavy iron gate, placed right next to the guard barracks. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier swore under his breath when he eyed off the gate, chest getting tight as he tried not to panic.

Even if he got out of his room, out of the palace…getting out of this courtyard would be near impossible. He would be seen and caught, brought back to face whatever punishment Emhyr had plotted for him. 

“Come on, Bard,” the captain said, clapping Jaskier’s shoulder as he smiled viciously at him. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

“Enjoy what?” Jaskier snapped hoarsely, even as he followed the captain down the steps, knowing his guards were just behind him. He tried to push away the anxieties around his escape, refusing to believe that there wasn’t a way out.

He’d find it. He would. 

“Pushing you to your limits, listening to you _beg_ me for mercy, to stop the drills,” the captain grinned darkly. “I like to break people. A bard like you should be no issue. You’ll be begging me in no time.”

Jaskier turned to look at him, eyebrow raised with a disbelieving look on his face.

“Oh-ho-ho, you really don’t know bards, do you?” Jaskier smirked. “Travelling bards are hardier than your permanent court type. I’ve followed a Witcher for over a _decade_ …and compared to my dear Witcher and his training regime, Captain…you and your soldier drills do not scare me one bit.” 

The captain scowled, eyes darkening. “Fine, Bard. We will see. Start with laps, one side of the courtyard to the other, until I tell you to stop.”

Jaskier smirked, knowing it irritated the captain. This was nothing. He had hiked beside Geralt for hours at a time, climbing up rock faces and mountains, running away from terrifying monsters that wanted to kill him or even fighting back against the occasional monster – which Jaskier hated. There was nothing quite like being covered in drowner guts and Jaskier despised when it happened to him. 

There were times when he needed to assist Geralt, pulling the man’s large arm over his shoulder and partly bearing the wounded Witcher’s weight as he helped Geralt get to safety, to Roach. 

So, yeah, this Nilfgaardian Captain didn’t scare him. Jaskier would not beg. He would not fail.

He’d make Geralt proud, imagining the small, fond smirk that Geralt would get, the fondness in his amber eyes, if he saw Jaskier show up this Nilfgaardian captain.

So with another smirk and an elaborate bow, Jaskier headed to where the captain had indicated and began to run. 

Vesemir sat in the library, a place which he had spent so many hours in, repairing the room after the sacking, trying to protect the knowledge they had collected over the years. 

It was one of his favourite retreats too, somewhere quiet and calm. Usually it was Geralt or Eskel that came to join him within the library, coming to read or to research something – and it was somewhere where Lambert kept far away from, unless he really needed something, so Vesemir got some peace and quiet. 

He paused just before he turned a page, hearing footsteps hesitating outside the door. Giving a low hum, Vesemir just turned the page, knowing that whoever was out there would come in when they were ready…and Vesemir already suspected who it was. 

A few minutes passed before the low creak of the library door opening broke the silence. Vesemir marked his page, looking up from his book to watch as Geralt walked in, shoulders bowed, his amber eyes unsure and tired, and looking rather small and vulnerable, despite his large, bulky build.

“Geralt,” Vesemir greeted. Geralt just remained silent as he crossed the room before soundlessly falling to his knees beside Vesemir, tilting his head forward so he could rest his forehead against Vesemir’s thigh.

The action made Vesemir sigh sadly. This was something that Geralt used to do as a child, when he had just begun training, and he couldn’t ask for comfort or reassurance in fear of being rebuked or punished by some of the other Witcher instructors for showing _‘weakness’_. 

By doing this, by just not asking or speaking, Geralt silently asked for comfort and reassurance from Vesemir, his mentor and father-figure. It was something Geralt did even once he passed the Trials, especially since so few of his age group survived, not knowing what the future would bring. 

With another sigh, Vesemir rested his hand on Geralt’s head, gently stroking the loose white hair. 

“What’s wrong, Geralt?” Vesemir asked him quietly. “You need to talk to me.”

Geralt shook his head against Vesemir’s thigh.

“I know something is bothering you, Wolf,” Vesemir continued. “I have not forgotten that this is what you used to do when something was bothering you, when you needed comfort and reassurance.”

“I-I’m not the Witcher I should be,” Geralt spoke up finally, voice quiet, but Vesemir’s sharp hearing was able to pick it up. Vesemir frowned at that. Geralt had been very quiet and withdrawn these last few days, especially since Lambert left, mostly keeping to his room.

“And why do you believe that?”

“I…it’s Jaskier,” Geralt croaked, still keeping his forehead pressed against Vesemir’s thigh, unable to look his father figure in the eyes.

“You’re not still blaming yourself, are you?” Vesemir asked firmly. “Geralt, we spoke about this.”

“No,” Geralt said, shaking his head. “It’s not that.”

“Then what’s troubling you, Geralt?” Vesemir pressed.

“My…my feelings,” Geralt whispered out, embarrassed. “They are not what a Witcher should feel.”

“Your feelings for Jaskier?” Vesemir questioned, needing the clarification, though he smiled. _Finally_ , Geralt had realised his feelings for the bard.

“Yes,” Geralt breathed, closing his eyes, finally admitting it out loud and admitting it truly to himself, making his feelings feel more real. “I love him when I know I shouldn’t.”

That made Vesemir frown. “And why shouldn’t you love him?”

“Because I’m a Witcher!” Geralt growled, fists clenching against his thighs. “We were told that we should never want this, never have it.”

“Fuck that,” Vesemir grumbled. “You all deserve what makes you happy, Geralt.”

Geralt finally lifted his head to look up at Vesemir, amber eyes filled with disbelief and shock at the elder Witcher’s words. 

“There are so few of us left, Geralt, and we’ve lived shitty, horrible lives for the most part. The ones who truly believed that are dead, Geralt...and they died knowing barely any happiness, believing they didn't deserve happiness, to be loved. I believe now - I see now, that we deserve happiness too,” Vesemir continued to explain firmly, continuing to keep up the stroking of Geralt’s hair. “Eskel has his animals and his books – tending to Lil Bleater and Scorpion makes him happy, which is why I’ve agreed to allow more animals for him to tend to during winter. Lambert has his boat and his fishing – even though he mostly uses bombs for that – but doing that makes him happy, gives him some sort of peace. Not to mention that Cat friend of his. I’ve got you, my sons, and my books and a new student to teach – that’s what makes me happy.”

Vesemir watched as a frown graced Geralt’s face, causing a furrow between his brows. 

“Does being with Jaskier make you happy?” Vesemir asked him quietly, stilling his hand at the base of Geralt’s neck. Geralt was silent for a moment, but Vesemir watched as the emotions crossed Geralt’s face before a softness filled his amber eyes.

“Yes,” Geralt whispered finally. “It does. He’s…he’s not like anyone I’ve met before, Vesemir, well, someone who isn’t a Witcher. He’s always been there for me, despite all the times I tried to drive him off. Jaskier took care of me, always wanted to help and make sure I was comfortable and taken care of.”

Vesemir smiled sadly at Geralt’s words, continuing in the stroking of his hair, trying to give his boy some comfort. 

“Despite everything said about Witchers, despite how everyone treated me, Jaskier refused to believe it, said that it was all lies and that he knew that wasn’t me,” Geralt continued, just needing to get all of this out. “Jaskier just saw me as _me_ , not as a freak or a mutant. He wanted to make my life better, to give me all the comforts that he could…and I love him for it, Vesemir. I love him and his tendency to hover, his non-stop chatter, his need for constant touches and affection. He’s kind but somewhat feral and may dress fine but he’s more willing to throw down in a bar fight than people would expect.”

Geralt’s voice broke and he stopped, turning his head away, shoulders going rigid. 

“I-I love him…but…I don’t know…”

“Do you doubt he loves you in return?” Vesemir asked wisely, seeming to have read his son’s mind. Geralt just gave a small nod in return, lips thinning slightly as he pressed them together tightly, unable to say the words.

“Oh, my boy, you mustn’t worry about that,” Vesemir reassured him with a small smile, watching as Geralt looked up at him, confusion within his eyes. “I’ve seen that boy look at you with such adoration, such _love_ , that I know that he feels the exact same for you.”

Geralt’s face softened at that, before anguish filled his eyes and he buried his face against Vesemir’s thigh once more.

“What if we don’t get him back?” Geralt whispered brokenly. “I-I can’t lose him, Vesemir, I can’t!”

“Hush, pup, hush,” Vesemir soothed as he stroked Geralt’s hair comfortingly. “We’re going to get him back. We are. I know it. Lambert has gone to meet his Cat and Coen has sent word that he’s going to contact what Griffins he knows. I’ve sent word to my contacts and Yennefer is in and out to contact whoever it is she knows, so no stone will be left unturned.”

Geralt nodded against Vesemir’s thigh, though he was still tense.

“We’re going to find him, Wolf,” Vesemir whispered again. “We’re going to get him back…and then you can finally tell him how you feel. You can have your happiness, Geralt, just like you deserve…and just like Jaskier deserves, knowing he has someone who loves him just as dearly in return.”

Geralt sighed, closing his eyes and just seeking the familiar comfort of Vesemir’s hand stroking his hair. He had been struggling with this whole realisation for days, trying to push it aside, to deny his feelings…but no matter what argument he found to try and dissuade himself, he kept coming up with more moments, more memories, of his interactions with Jaskier, seeing the bard smile at him with soft blue eyes, having to wade in and pull Jaskier out of a full out bar brawl because someone had insulted him, which Jaskier had refused to stand for. 

Jaskier didn’t just get into brawls for anyone. When people insulted him or his clothes, Jaskier usually just rolled his eyes or was quick to retort with a quip, before going back to drinking or chatting with Geralt - though Geralt usually glared at those insulting Jaskier until they were unnerved enough to leave.

He knew that Vesemir would set him straight, which was why he sought out his old mentor and father-figure. He hadn’t expected Vesemir to accept his confession so quickly or easily, but Geralt knew, that after everything that had happened to the Wolves, that Vesemir had softened over the years. 

Slowly, Geralt straightened up until he was sitting on his heels, feeling a bit more centred after his chat with Vesemir. He tilted his head back slightly so he could meet Vesemir’s gaze, seeing his mentor smiling sadly at him.

“Feeling more centred, Wolf?” Vesemir asked gently. Geralt nodded ever so slightly, dipping his chin in agreement. 

“Yes, Vesemir,” replied Geralt. “Still…uncertain, but I don’t feel as lost.” 

Vesemir nodded, resting his hand at the base of Geralt’s neck once again, just being there to provide further comfort to his son, who he knew would be going through emotional upheaval. This was totally new ground for Geralt, something that the young white haired Witcher would need to come to terms with himself. 

He kept his gaze fixed firmly on Geralt’s face as he watched Geralt glanced around the room, before the young pup froze, his gaze fixed on something to Vesemir’s left. Vesemir glanced over to see what had caught Geralt’s attention, making his pup go all rigid under his hand. 

“Ah,” Vesemir sighed when he spotted what had grabbed Geralt’s attention. “Yes, I brought Jaskier’s other instruments down here. I thought they’d be safer down here, less likely to be damaged by accident, especially since you boys do seem to have a habit to tussle whenever the situation calls for it, no matter where in the keep you are.”

Geralt just stared at the viol and the harp just sitting there. The viol was perched carefully on a table, while the harp sat beside it on the floor. He vaguely remembered Eskel and Lambert swearing as they carried the harp through Yennefer’s portal from Jaskier’s room at Oxenfurt all of those months ago, but he hadn’t really been paying attention, too focused on getting the rest of Jaskier’s possessions packed up so they could get out of there quicker. 

“Eskel has been taking care of them,” Vesemir continued, drawing Geralt’s attention back to him. “He’s become quite taken with the harp actually. He was planning on asking Jaskier to teach him how to play it during Winter.” 

Geralt sighed tiredly at that, feeling the exhaustion he’d been ignoring come creeping back in, and rested his head back against Vesemir’s thigh.

“We’ll get him back,” Vesemir repeated once more. “We will. Eskel will ask Jaskier to teach him how to play the harp. Lambert will have his gwent and terrible pun buddy back and Ciri will have her friend back. You will get to have your beloved bard back by your side again, both of you fussing over the other.”

Geralt gave a low, grunt-like laugh at that. He and Jaskier did certainly fuss over each other…both in very different ways usually though. 

Sighing lowly, Geralt shifted on his knees, getting more comfortable as he rested his head back on Vesemir’s leg. He didn’t want to be alone, to go back to his room where he would be surrounded by reminders of Jaskier, all of his belongings just sitting there, missing their owner – carrying the faintest, fading scent of Jaskier’s, something that Geralt would get the smallest whiff of but then would lose.

“Rest, Wolf,” Vesemir’s voice murmured from above him, hand resting on the back of his head. “Rest. I’ll take watch.”

Geralt breathed out, closing his eyes, as Vesemir began to read aloud, his low, quiet voice washing over him, comforting him, lulling him into a mediative state. 

Soon, Geralt thought sleepily before he slipped deeper into his calm doze. Soon he’d be back in fighting shape. Soon he’d get Jaskier back and hold that chattering, loud, big hearted bard in his arms once again. 

Soon.

Jaskier breathed heavily, sweat beading down from his brow, hair plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck with sweat. He could hear the jeers of the Nilfgaardian soldiers who were watching him, but Jaskier just gritted his teeth together, readjusting the heavy pole of wood across his shoulders. He took strong, deliberate steps, blinking away the sweat that stung at his eyes and threatened to temporarily blind his vision. 

Once he reached the end of the training site, Jaskier dropped the wooden pole onto the ground, panting heavily as he rolled out his shoulders. He turned to face the Nilfgaardian Captain. The captain was staring at him, brow furrowed as he considered the bard. Jaskier grinned broadly at him, giving a sweeping bow, even as his heart hammered in his chest, sweat dripping down his face and shirt sticking to his skin, damp from perspiration. The captain had been working him for hours, trying to get him to break, to beg for him to stop.

Jaskier had refused. He pushed on through all of the challenges that was thrown at him.

“How the fuck did you manage to carry that so easily?” one of the soldiers asked from where he was leaning against the wall. Jaskier turned to face him, grinning, but also using this moment to catch his breath.

“Years of carrying around a lute and my bags,” Jaskier answered with a shrug. “A travelling bard needs to have the strength to carry the necessary items.” Jaskier paused for a moment, thinking. “And, besides, there were times where I had to help Geralt get a kikimora corpse onto his horse, or carry some monster head trophy – which is really gross by the way – if Geralt couldn’t do it. They can be surprisingly heavy.”

The soldiers snickered at that. Jaskier rolled his shoulders again, trying to work out the ache in his shoulder and keeping the muscles from seizing it up. He turned to the captain, who was scowling at him. Jaskier’s gaze was caught by movement by the stairs, heart skipping a beat and chest seizing slightly when he saw Cahir and Emhyr walking down the stairs with Mererid following close behind. 

“Captain,” Emhyr greeted, eyeing off the heavily breathing Jaskier, who was watching them in return. “Is he following your orders?”

“Without complaint,” the captain responded begrudgingly. “A lot of sassy comments and stories, but he does as ordered.” 

Emhyr just turned his head to look at Jaskier before ordering, “Bard. Come here.”

Jaskier took in a breath but did as he was ordered, wincing as aches ran up the sides of his legs with each step. He came to a stop in front of Emhyr, at the bottom of the stairs. 

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty?” Jaskier asked, voice cool and eyes like ice as he met Emhyr’s steady gaze, letting Emhyr know that he was still pissed about what he had learnt. 

“Commander,” Emhyr just said, not taking his eyes off of Jaskier. “What drill do you believe the bard should do next?”

Cahir smirked as he looked to Jaskier. “I think a spar is in order,” Cahir responded easily, which caused the captain to scoff.

“Please, he may be able to run the drills, but he will never hold up against our finely trained soldiers,” the captain sniffed as he eyed Jaskier off disdainfully. Emhyr finally looked to Cahir as Cahir gave a quiet chuckle.

“You believe differently, Commander?”

“He’s a brawler, Your Majesty,” Cahir nodded. “Not to be underestimated. This I know first hand.”

The captain still didn’t look convinced, but Emhyr was intrigued now, his dark gaze landing back on Jaskier, who was scowling at Cahir. 

“This should be interesting,” Emhyr said. “Captain, choose a man to spar against the bard. No weapons. Hand to hand only. First to yield.” 

Jaskier turned to see what soldier the captain had called up, eyeing off the slightly muscular man. He was about Jaskier’s height, with a slightly heavier build, with a sneer upon his face as he stared at Jaskier with contempt on his face and challenge in his eyes. 

Sighing, Jaskier reached into his shirt, pulling out the medallion and pulling the chain over his head. He couldn’t trust this soldier not to try and use the medallion against, whether to try choke him with chain or whatnot…and he couldn’t risk the brute breaking the only thing he had of Geralt in this hell hole. 

“Could you hold this for me, please?” Jaskier asked Mererid politely, turning his gaze to him. Mererid blinked, surprised to be asked, but gave a small nod, extending his hand. Jaskier carefully, and a little regretfully, placed the medallion into Mererid’s hand. 

He didn’t trust anyone here – except Jon, to a certain degree – but Mererid didn’t seem the sort to just run off with the medallion. Despite who he served loyally, he seemed an honest sort. 

Jaskier headed towards the marked out square, eyeing off his opponent as he grinned mockingly at the bard. Jaskier rolled his eyes as the soldier turned to face his fellow men, throwing his arms up in order to get cheers. He, being the clever bard he was, took this time to stretch out slightly, ensuring he wouldn’t cramp up mid spar. The solider turned back around to face Jaskier, a smug expression on his face, apparently done with his peacocking. Jaskier slipped into a ready stance, eyes firmly fixed on his opponent, just as Geralt and Vesemir had taught him.

He waited, poised and ready, for the soldier to make the first move…which he did, very quickly, apparently too impatient to wait or too arrogant to try and size Jaskier up.

Jaskier quickly side-stepped the lunge, while also striking out, catching the soldier across the head. The soldier snarled as he turned to face Jaskier, furious now.

Soon enough, after punches thrown and dodged, they were both grappling on the ground after Jaskier had managed to hook his legs around the soldier’s waist and use the momentum to bring them both down – with the soldier slammed onto the ground, of course.

The grappling, brawl type of fighting was where Jaskier thrived, having had years of experience defending himself and Geralt in many an inn from assholes and pricks alike. 

He used his lean limbs to wrap around his opponent, throwing an elbow here and there to try and daze or wind them. He managed to elbow the soldier in the nose, connecting with a solid thunk and a groan from the solider. Jaskier grunted as a fist connected with his stomach.

If Eskel or Lambert were here they’d both be shouting to throw dust in his opponent’s eyes or kick him in the balls – but Jaskier knew doing so would get him in a lot of trouble here. 

However, Jaskier knew how to use his lean frame to his advantage…and had gotten rather good at escaping holds. In no time at all, he had managed to wriggle around until he was behind his opponent and wrapped his limbs around him. He wrapped his legs around the man’s mid-section, pinning his arms to his sides with his strong thigh and calve muscles while he wrapped an arm around the man’s neck, holding tightly as the man thrashed in his hold, trying to break loose.

“Yield,” Jaskier muttered in his ear.

“Fuck you!” the soldier snarled, so Jaskier just squeezed tighter in response, feeling the man’s thrashing grow weaker as he neared unconsciousness.

“Enough!”

The sharp command rang clearly throughout the training yard and Jaskier immediately obeyed, letting go of the soldier and pushing him away. He didn’t want to take the spar any further than he had to, having proved what he needed to…and he didn’t want to choke a man to unconsciousness. 

Jaskier stood up and brushed down his dirty clothes as the soldier stayed on the ground, coughing and gasping for breath. He looked up towards the steps of the palace where Emhyr and Cahir stood. Cahir was looking at Jaskier, intrigued with what he just saw, while Emhyr just stood there, lips pressed into a firm, disapproving line.

“Where the fuck did you learn that?” the soldier Jaskier sparred managed to cough out as he finally stood.

Jaskier gave a slight shrug. “Learnt how to fight in a number of ways. Needed to know how to defend myself when I was a travelling bard…and I received further training from my Witcher.”

“Fuck,” the soldier coughed, shaking his head. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“Captain,” Emhyr spoke up, sharp voice breaking the hushed conversation of the soldiers. “If your men cannot defeat a mere bard in a simple spar, then I fear that their training is lacking.”

The captain paled. “W-We will rectify this at once, Your Majesty.”

“See that you do…or I will find a more suitable replacement for you,” Emhyr warned before looking to Jaskier, who had walked up to the steps. Jaskier kept his gaze away from the Nilfgaardian soldiers at Emhyr’s words, not wanting them to see him and blame everything on him. Instead he walked up to the steps and to Mererid, who wordlessly handed the medallion back to him. Jaskier quickly took it back with a murmured, “Thank you.” 

He stared at the medallion for a moment, swiping his thumb across it and imagining the pride on Geralt’s face if he had seen Jaskier win that brawl against a trained soldier. Swallowing deeply, Jaskier put the medallion on once more, exhaling in relief when the familiar, comforting weight settled against his chest once again.

“That’s enough for today,” Emhyr spoke up, gaining Jaskier’s attention. “Mererid, escort him back to his quarters.”

Jaskier went to follow Mererid, but paused for a moment beside Emhyr, allowing their eyes to meet. He hoped that Emhyr could see the meaning behind his gaze and expression, telling the emperor that Jaskier was a threat, that he just easily defeated one of his trained soldiers…and that he would fight to protect Ciri.

Emhyr just stared back, his cold brown eyes seemingly getting colder as he did so. Jaskier gave a slight nod, knowing his message had been received, before he wordlessly followed Mererid back into the palace – his usual guard squad quickly coming up to flank him to make sure he didn’t try anything funny – and back towards his comfortable cell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, that ended up being a long one...  
> The return of feral Jaskier :P 
> 
> and Geralt _finally_ confessed his realisations and his feelings!
> 
> Thanks for the comments! Let me know what you think!


	14. A Rhyme

Once he was in the room, Jaskier walked over to the vanity, where the bowl of water and a cloth was waiting for him. 

“Fresh clothes,” Mererid announced as he dropped a bundle on the end of the bed. “The gentleman will leave his dirty clothes on the vanity there and they will be collected later.”

Jaskier nodded, glancing over tiredly at the chamberlain. “Thank you, Mererid.” 

Mererid gave a curt nod in return before he turned and left the room, the heavy wooden door shutting behind him before Jaskier heard the key turning in the lock. 

With a sigh, Jaskier stripped his perspiration damp shirt over his head, dropping it onto the vanity, before he grabbed the cloth. Dipping it into the wash bowl, Jaskier dampened the cloth, using it to scrub at his skin, scrubbing the dirt and dried sweat off from upon it. He cleaned off the cloth and rewet it a number of times, wiping off the layers of dirt and sweat until he felt clean and fresh once again – skin shining, free of dirt, and chest hair no longer laden with perspiration. 

Jaskier placed the cloth down, glancing at the mirror and frowning when he caught sight of all of the fresh bruising beginning to blossom across his skin from the spar and from the many exercises that the captain had pushed him through. Still, the sight of the bruises brought some sort of smug glee to the poet, knowing that he didn’t surrender to the captain, didn’t beg for him to stop. He remained strong and showed them all that he wasn’t to be underestimated because he was a bard. 

Stretching out his aching limbs, Jaskier headed towards the bed, clumsily pulling on the fresh clothes that Mererid had left him before collapsing on his stomach onto the bed, groaning as all of his muscles ached from that intense workout. 

Sighing, Jaskier shuffled up the bed to rest his head on the pillows, burying himself into the soft, comfortable bedding. He was exhausted.

Closing his eyes, Jaskier thought back over the day, going over everything he saw, the guards, the different halls. He tried to think if anything he saw could give him some way out – tried to think if there was any discrepancies with the guards, anywhere they hadn’t been. 

Swearing under his breath, Jaskier sat up slightly so he could punch a pillow before flopping back down under it. 

Emhyr had his guards sorted out too well. Jaskier hadn’t seen any spaces where they weren’t watching, all of them set out a certain distance from one another. Always watching. 

Jaskier curled his legs up towards his chest, allowing his eyes to drift close. He might not have found a way out this time, but it didn’t mean he was giving up. He just had to get out of his comfortable cell again in order to scout the palace, to find another route out of the palace. 

Emhyr’s guards couldn’t watch every passage of the palace at every moment of the day. There had to be some lapse in guarding, some occasion where they didn’t cover every exit...all Jaskier had to do was find the right route at the right time. 

Curling up languidly on the bed, Jaskier yawned and sleepily reached up to grasp at the medallion hanging out his neck, loosely hanging onto it.

He would find a way out. He’d get back to Geralt so he could give his medallion back, so they could protect Ciri.

He would figure a way out of here. He had to.

“Hey, Wolf.”

Geralt looked up from the maps he had spread out across the table, just in time to see Eskel approach the table. Eskel frowned as he glanced over the maps, which more or less showed different reaches of the Continent. Eskel leaned over, running his gaze over the different markings that Geralt had made on the maps.

“What’s this?” he asked, glancing up at Geralt, who was just frowning at the maps and the scribbled markings. Eskel went back to studying the map, giving Geralt a moment to figure out his answer. Some spots were circled and then crossed out, while others were just circled with a question mark or scribbled notes beside it. 

“Locations,” Geralt grunted out finally, his amber eyes fixated on the map. “Yennefer’s and Vesemir’s contacts have sent back locations of Nilfgaardian garrisons, well, the known ones anyway.”

“And I’m guessing the scribbled out ones are the ones that don’t have Jaskier?” Eskel pushed. 

“Mm,” Geralt grunted. “Not in the right locations and Coen has reported back that he’s searched a couple – subtly, of course – and couldn’t find a trace of Jaskier.”

“Ah,” Eskel murmured as he studied the maps. “And some garrisons have been ruled due to location and placement, right?” 

Geralt finally looked up at him at that, meeting his gaze for the first time since he had walked into the room. 

“Yes,” Geralt answered, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. “Not a place they could hold a prisoner or too easily accessible to outsiders.”

“Smart,” Eskel muttered before sitting down in front of the table, keeping his eyes on Geralt as Geralt went back to his map, frowning as he examined every inch of it, occasionally murmuring under his breath as his fingers traced along every detail, every etching upon the maps. 

Eskel took that time to examine his brother. He and Geralt had known each other since they were young, both in the same training group at Kaer Morhen when they were boys. They, along with a boy called Gweld, were unstoppable together…and the only three boys to survive out of their group during the Trials. Gweld hadn’t survived long after they went on the Path…and now…now it was just Eskel and Geralt left of their group. Luckily they had Lambert too, as annoying as their little brother could be – but out of everyone they truly grew up with, it was only the two of them left.

And, from knowing Geralt for all of these long, hard years, Eskel could see how much his brother was struggling. Dark smudges stained the skin beneath Geralt’s tired amber eyes, looking like he had overdosed on potions. Geralt’s skin was pale and pinched, especially around the eyes and mouth – evidence of broken rest, as though Geralt hadn’t been sleeping nor getting the proper meditation to restore his energy. 

Eskel’s gaze drifted down Geralt’s body, taking in the slightly looser shirt, which made him frown. It looked like Geralt had lost some weight and muscle mass. He knew that Geralt wasn’t able to train like he used to, still falling victim to bouts of extreme fatigue due to the concoction he had been poisoned with, but still...the weight loss was worrying.

“Have you eaten today?” Eskel asked, startling Geralt from his deep thoughts. 

“Hmm?”

Eskel rolled his eyes at Geralt’s distracted response. 

“Have you eaten?” Eskel repeated slowly, eyes boring into Geralt’s, watching the confusion flash through them, which made Eskel frown. “Geralt,” he said, voice firm and disapproving, sounding very much like Vesemir when they had gotten into mischief. “Have you eaten today?”

“Had some fruit earlier, I think,” Geralt muttered, gaze dropping back to the maps. “M’fine.” 

Eskel sighed as he pushed himself to his feet. “Not good enough, Wolf, and you know it.”

Geralt just blinked at him, looking lost and confused. Eskel just shook his head as he rounded the table, grabbing Geralt’s upper arm and dragging him from the room, only getting the weakest resistance from his brother. 

“Eskel, wait…I can’t!” Geralt growled, struggling weakly against Eskel’s grip on his arm – which only served to make Eskel’s frown deepen, worrying for his brother. Usually Geralt could break his grip with such ease, which would then lead them into a playful tussle – but to see him so weakened because of the potion and because of his guilt and worry for Jaskier only caused Eskel to despair further for his brother. 

“Yes, you can,” Eskel said firmly as he dragged Geralt into the kitchens. “You need to eat, Geralt, you need to regain your strength. You’re no use to Jaskier if you keep this up, Wolf.” 

He hated to have to use Jaskier against him…but if it made Geralt realise, if it made Geralt pull himself together a bit, well, it would be worth it. 

“You need to eat, you need to sleep,” Eskel continued as he pushed Geralt down to sit before he went to find some food for him to eat. “You need to regain your energy, regain your strength. You’re no used to Jaskier if you can’t see straight, if you can’t focus on the map, if you can’t use that sharp mind of yours correctly.”

Eskel turned back, a plate of meats in hand, just as Geralt bowed his head, shoulders hunching forward. Eskel sighed as he settled down to sit beside Geralt, placing the plate in front of him.

“He’s just…he’s out there somewhere, Eskel,” Geralt breathed as he buried his face into his hands. “I _need_ him, Eskel, I want him back with me! I want to see him smile, hear him sing and chatter endlessly.”

“And you will,” Eskel tried to reassure him, trying to believe it himself. “We will get him back, Geralt. Nilfgaard would be foolish to harm him. He’s out there, waiting for us…and I know Jaskier - I know that he will stay strong for us...for you.”

Geralt kept his face buried his hands. Eskel sighed, shifting so he could lean against Geralt’s side, resting his chin upon Geralt’s shoulder so he could murmur in his ear, “Jaskier will remain strong for you, so you must remain strong for Jaskier, Geralt. This means you need to eat, you need to sleep, and you need to train – but not to the point of collapse.” 

Geralt shuddered before he nodded, straightening up. 

“Y-You’re right,” Geralt muttered, barely glancing at Eskel. “Lambert is out there looking for Jaskier, as are the other Witchers. I-I can’t let them down here.”

Eskel nodded, exhaling in relief. He knew that it would take work to get Geralt back to a better place, but that was why he was there and why he hadn’t joined the search himself. 

Vesemir, though an accomplished teacher and respected mentor, already had his hands full with training a young, mischievous, energetic child – who also needed constant comfort and reassurance especially after the horrors she had faced. Eskel knew that Vesemir was doing his best to also look after Geralt, to make sure he didn’t push himself too far and that he didn’t take the burden of guilt onto his shoulders, but he was also balancing Ciri’s training and the correspondence amongst the other Witchers and their allies. 

Vesemir wasn’t as young as he once was and Eskel knew that he could use all the help he could get. So if he could relieve some of Vesemir’s burden by assisting him with Ciri’s training and with making sure Geralt didn’t destroy himself in the hunt to find Jaskier, well, it also helped to clear Eskel’s mind, knowing that he could be there to assist and wouldn’t let Vesemir be run ragged and making sure Geralt had the company, reassurance and that push they could give him so that he would get through this.

He didn’t want to lose his brother.

Eskel kept an eye on Geralt as he ate, making sure that he did eat as much as he could. Once Geralt had cleared his plate, Eskel nudged him with a shoulder, gaining his attention. 

“C’mon,” Eskel murmured to him. “Let’s go check on Roach and Scorpion…and then we can join in on Ciri’s lesson, huh, sound good?”

Geralt sighed but nodded, watching Eskel grin. Eskel clapped him on the back before standing up, waiting for Geralt to join him. Together they walked out of the Keep, heading towards the stables. They were greeted by a chorus of whinnies as soon as they entered. 

Roach poked her head out from her stall, huffing and snorting loudly, stomping her foot, when she spied Geralt. Geralt smiled sadly as he came to stand in front of her stall, immediately getting head butted in the chest. He felt guilty when he realised how long it had been since he had come to properly see her, with Ciri and Eskel taking over stable duties. 

“Hey, Roach,” Geralt murmured as he stroked her neck. “It’s been a while. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come and see you…but I’ve been trying to find Jaskier.”

Roach lifted her head up enough so she could lip at Geralt’s chin before going in to nibble at the ends of his white hair. 

Geralt could hear Eskel chatting to Scorpion and Lil Bleater and knew that he was giving Geralt some privacy to just talk. Geralt leaned forward, resting his forehead against Roach’s nose, even as she continued onto nibbling his hair comfortingly. 

“I’m going to find him,” Geralt whispered to her, absently stroking her neck. “I’m going to get him back…and then he can ply you with all the sugar cubes and apples that he’s able to.”

Roach nickered softly in his ear in response and Geralt closed his eyes tightly, wrapping his arms loosely around Roach’s neck as he leaned against her. A memory crept into his mind and he could see a clearing they once camped at, one like many others. Jaskier was sitting by the fire, strumming absently at his lute as he chattered to Roach. 

Geralt had just come back from a hunt, still heavily affected by potions, and so he had stayed just out of eye sight, just taking the moment to watch Jaskier. 

“What do you think, darling Roach?” Jaskier asked, tilting his head to look at Roach. Roach just snorted at him and Jaskier hummed thoughtfully, glancing to the side at his notebook. “Ah, yes, I agree. Settle would certainly rhyme better with mettle compared to kettle.”

Roach huffed again, head swaying up and down. Jaskier grinned up at her after he made his correction in his notebook. He placed his lute aside before grabbing one of his packs and digging through it, letting loose a triumphant noise when he pulled out an apple.

“Knew I had one tucked in here!” Jaskier told her as he climbed to his feet. “It’s a little soft, but it’s still good, my dearest Roach. I would not dream of giving my wise and caring friend a rotten apple. Only the best for you, my dear.” 

Jaskier rubbed the apple against his soft pants before offering to Roach, who quickly devoured the sweet treat. 

“There we go,” Jaskier smiled as he stroked her nose. “How do I write my songs without you, my sweet?” 

Jaskier patted her nose once again, laughing softly as she knocked her nose against his chest affectionately, which made Geralt smile. Roach never liked people and had a tendency to bite everyone who wasn’t him…until Jaskier came along and earned her trust and affection.

“Now, don’t tell Geralt I’ve been giving you apples,” Jaskier reminded her as he went to settle back down against his log. “You know he hates it when I do that…even though you deserve all of the sweetness in this world. But he only does it because he cares for you,” Jaskier added on with a soft smile. “It’s good to be cared for by him, isn’t he? He just wants to protect us, to do what’s best for us…though he’ll never actually outright say it, but he says it in his actions.” 

Jaskier sighed sadly, giving Roach a sad smile as she nickered softly. “It’s just a shame that everybody treats him so horribly,” he continued, which made Geralt stiffen, his pitch black eyes settling on Jaskier and just staring. “But that is why he has us, dearest Roach. We’re here to show him the kindness he deserves and that’s what we’ll continue to do, hmm? Make sure he’s taken care of and protected as much as we can.”

With another soft sigh, Jaskier picked up his lute, humming along to the song he was composing, trying to work the tune out. 

Geralt just remained standing there for another few minutes, not wanting Jaskier to know that he had overheard what he said. Jaskier had come to fuss over him the moment he stepped into the light of fire, not caring about the black lines marring his face nor the purely black eyes. Geralt had just hummed and grunted along to all of Jaskier’s chattered questions and stories, allowing Jaskier to help him, knowing that it helped to settle the bard. 

Once they were settled down, with the potions finally beginning to ebb their way from Geralt’s system, Geralt turned to face Jaskier, who had picked his lute up again. His heart gave a weird tug as he watched Jaskier play, humming every now and again before pausing and fixing something in his notebook. 

“What’s this?” Geralt had grunted at him. “Haven’t heard this one before.”

Jaskier startled at that before beaming. “It’s new, Geralt. I’m still working on it.”

Geralt’s gaze drifted to Roach, hiding a smile as he remembered Jaskier asking her for rhyming advice and acting as though she had actually answered him and had given him a wise response.

“Play it for me?” Geralt asked as he leaned back, exhausted, seeing the shock flash across Jaskier’s face, which made him feel a bit guilty. He had never actually asked Jaskier to sing or play the lute for him before…only barking at him when he was annoyed and wanted quiet. “If you want to, that is.”

“No, no, of course,” Jaskier said quickly, a bright smile adorning his face, which had the corners of Geralt’s lips pulling up in response, pleased to see Jaskier so happy. “Just keep in mind that I’m still working on it, yes?”

“Jaskier, if it’s like any of your other songs, it’ll come out just fine,” Geralt had responded. Jaskier had been rendered speechless at that, eyes looking suspiciously watery, before he cleared his throat, smiling at Geralt once again. 

“Y-Yes, of course, thank you, dear one,” Jaskier said, voice soft and awed as he smiled at Geralt. Geralt inclined his head, surprised at Jaskier’s reaction. He could scent the shock and surprise…but was then overwhelmed by Jaskier’s warm, flowery and happy scent. Then again, Geralt mused, he had never truly complimented Jaskier on his music before.   
With a deep breath, Jaskier began to play, accompanying the music with softly sung words. As Jaskier sang, Geralt glanced at Roach, who was watching the both of them. 

He needed to buy her some apples he decided as he looked back to Jaskier. After all, she did help him write this song. 

“Geralt?”

Geralt was pulled from the memory at Eskel’s voice. He sighed against Roach’s neck, her mane fluttering slightly from his puff of breath, before he pulled away. He nodded as he looked to the worried Eskel.

“I’m fine, Eskel,” he grunted. “Just caught in a memory.”

Eskel nodded, though he still looked slightly worried, but he just pushed that aside. “Should we go train now? Show Ciri how it’s done?” 

Geralt nodded, patting Roach’s nose. “Sure, let’s go. I’ll see you soon, Roach.”

Roach huffed and butted against his chest again, making him smile sadly. He patted her soft, velvety nose once more before following Eskel from the stable. 

They walked down to the training area, finding Ciri and Vesemir were already there with the elder Witcher circling Ciri, nodding as he examined her form as she attacked a training dummy. 

“Ah, boys,” Vesemir greeted once he caught sight of them. “Come to join us?” 

Eskel nodded as he grabbed a training sword, glancing back at Geralt, who was looking over the training swords. 

“Thought it’d be best to get out for a bit,” Eskel answered as he swung the sword around, getting a feel for it. “You know, fresh air and all, taking a break sort of thing.”

Vesemir’s golden eyes flickered to Geralt. “Yes, a great idea. Fresh air and some training always does help to clear the mind.”

Ciri had paused in her training, turning to grin widely at Geralt as he approached them. Geralt just winked at her, causing her to giggle and catching Vesemir’s attention. 

“All right, little Wolf, back to work,” Vesemir said gruffly, gently tugging at her braided hair. Ciri shot him a smile, green eyes filled with relief at seeing Geralt, before she nodded and turned her attention back to the training dummy. “You can show Geralt everything you’ve been learning.” 

Vesemir nodded as Ciri went back to beating the training dummy, though he occasionally glanced back at Geralt and Eskel, watching as they sparred. Geralt seemed a bit more centred as he defended himself against Eskel’s unending attacks, but there was still an emptiness in Geralt’s eyes which Vesemir loathed to see. Vesemir hummed as a cool wind suddenly blew through the training yard, causing poor Ciri to give a small shiver before she went back to her training. 

Winter was swiftly approaching…and Vesemir needed to be prepared, especially since his usual stores were lower than usual due to the unexpected occupation of Kaer Morhen outside of Winter.

“Eskel,” Vesemir called.

“Yeah?” Eskel called back, though he didn’t take his eyes from Geralt as the two slowly circled, both waiting for an opportunity to strike the other. 

“I need you to head down to town tomorrow and stock up on some supplies,” Vesemir told him. “I’ll head down closer to Winter, but we need some more supplies now.”

“Of course,” Eskel nodded before leaping back as Geralt swung at him. “I’ll head down early, take the cart and donkey.” 

“Good, thank you,” Vesemir said curtly before turning back to Ciri and correcting her stance. As he watched Ciri, and occasionally glanced back to check on Geralt and Eskel, he found himself wondering about Winter and what would happen if they hadn’t found Jaskier by then. 

Lambert would have to return to Kaer Morhen, it wasn’t sensible for Witchers to remain out during Winter. Most of the monsters went into hibernation and towns were reluctant to pay or give Witchers shelter or supplies. The only time the boys didn’t return to Kaer Morhen in time was if they were caught by an early snowstorm, or if they were lucky enough to be put up for the Winter for a contract, usually for a lord…but that was rare. 

There was also no way that any Witcher could sensibly continue the search for Jaskier, not in the snow and the cold…even the Nilfgaardian soldiers would batten down the hatches for Winter, to wait out the snow and cold. 

Lambert would have to come home with or without Jaskier. 

Though, Vesemir couldn’t help but think morosely, it would be a very quiet, very sombre Winter without Jaskier.

Jaskier’s eyes opened to dim light pouring through the windows. He groaned as he rolled over, muscles aching and protesting the movement. Sighing, he stared up at the canopy above him, muscles throbbing, especially where his skin was bruised from yesterday’s hard drills. He sat up as the door opened, wincing as the movement pulled at his aching muscles. 

“Ah, Jaskier,” Liliana greeted as she walked in, smiling warmly at him, carrying a jug in one hand and a plate in another. “I came to bring you dinner last night, but I just could not rouse you from your sleep. Were you that exhausted, young one?” 

Jaskier blinked at that, surprised by that information – and also a little perturbed. Anyone could have come in while he was practically dead to the world. 

“Yes, I do suppose I was exhausted,” Jaskier said slowly, growing aware of his aching stomach and the dryness of his mouth. He swept his tongue across his dry, cracking lips, trying to wet them…but not quite succeeding. 

“Here, sweetheart,” Liliana said as she poured him a mug of juice. “You look like you need a drink.”

Jaskier smiled thankfully at her as he took the mug, drinking the sweet juice quickly, not realising how thirsty he had been. 

“I heard you gave quite the show to the soldiers yesterday,” Liliana said with a small smile. “Showed them you’re not just some showy bard.”

“Well, I am quite a showman,” Jaskier joked weakly as Liliana refilled his mug, gently coaxing him to drink more. “But, yes, I thought they should see that they should not underestimate people by their appearance or line of work.” 

“That is quite true,” Liliana said thoughtfully as she handed Jaskier the plate with his breakfast. “Though they know not to underestimate you now...sometimes it’s wiser to not show your full hand.”

“Well, too late for that now,” Jaskier muttered around mouthfuls. “Besides, they already know I can fight with a sword. I killed two of their soldiers when they were trying to capture me.”

Liliana paused, turning to stare at Jaskier in shock at that. Jaskier caught her gaze and just offered a small shrug, turning his focus back to the plate. 

“Didn’t want to be a prisoner again. I just…I just want to get out of here.”

A gentle, wrinkled hand rested on his head for a moment and he glanced up to see Liliana staring back, her aged face filled with sympathy and pity. Jaskier just smiled weakly at her in return. 

“Well, I need to get back to my duties,” Liliana sighed as she gathered up the empty plate. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier murmured, nodding to the juice and the plate. Liliana smiled at him, eyes crinkling softly. 

“Any time, sweetheart,” she told him sincerely before turning to walk away. She paused a few steps away, turning back to face him with a thoughtful look on her face. 

“Perhaps you should ask your guards to accompany you for a walk,” she suggested carefully. “The courtyard within the palace is rather lovely.”

Jaskier blinked in surprise, unsure of what she was trying to tell him, but gave a small nod of understanding. Liliana smiled at him before she hurried off. Jaskier watched as the door shut behind her with a frown. 

She was trying to tell him something, perhaps to show him something? 

Jaskier couldn’t figure out what, though a flow of ideas darted through his head, from finding someone there who would help him escape, or finding an escape route…all ideas along those lines. 

But he wouldn’t find out what she was trying to show him if he just remained sitting here and just thinking about it. 

Wincing, Jaskier pushed himself to his feet, stretching out his sore muscles until the ache turned more pleasant. Sighing, he ran a hand through his brown hair, neatening the sleep-tousled locks before he looked to the door. 

“Well, here goes nothing,” Jaskier murmured to himself before taking a steeling breath and marching to the door. He rapped upon it three times, cocking his head slightly as he strained to hear anything on the other side of the heavy door. 

He straightened up as he heard the key scrape in the lock before the door opened outwards, revealing his surprised, and slightly suspicious, guards standing there.

Jaskier fixed a smile onto his face before he said pleasantly and cheerfully, “Hello, gentlemen, I was wondering if you would accompany me on a walk. I just want to stretch my legs a bit.”

Inwardly he smirked as the guards exchanged surprised, unsure looks, seeming to be a bit thrown by his cheerfulness and his request.

He could only hope they would fulfil it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annd another one :D  
> Still doing my best to beat the story line I have planned into order, but I think I'm getting there with the time line and occurrences I want...I even figured out that something I want to happen can actually happen and make sense, so that should be fun...just need to fit it in here somewhere...but just trying to keep up the motivation because still in lockdown here and it's a bit draining
> 
> But thank you for all the comments, I appreciate them greatly!  
> Let me know what you think :D


	15. The Truth

Jaskier found himself needing to restrain his behaviour as he was led out of his room by his usual squad of four guards. Excitement raced through him, heart thumping in his chest, feeling like he almost needed to bounce down the halls – but he restrained himself, not wanting to arise suspicion in the guards. 

He couldn’t believe that he had been given permission to go for a walk…guarded, of course. He was truly expecting Emhyr to keep him locked in his room, especially since Jaskier had snapped at him – rightfully so – about his plans regarding Ciri. Jaskier pushed that thought aside. He couldn’t be distracted by that now. He had to focus, to try figure out what Liliana had been alluding to. If he could do that, then he could warn Geralt, protect Ciri from Emhyr’s plans. 

“Well, this is quaint,” Jaskier said to one of the guards as they came to the courtyard. The guard just grunted in return, though Jaskier paid him no mind, eyes already darting around the green filled courtyard. The courtyard was situated within the palace, surrounded by corridors on all sides, the corridors opened by large arches. A water fountain sat in the middle of the courtyard, paved paths, lined by small hedges, leading to the water fountain. 

Jaskier stepped out into the courtyard, glancing up at the cloudy sky above, before turning his focus back to the yard. He glanced over the flower bushes and the trees, looking for _something_ , looking for _anything_ that would help him get out of here. 

Jaskier wandered around the courtyard, his guards watching from different points of the courtyard, trying to find something. Maybe a secret door or passageway or a hidden key or note…there just _had_ to be something!

Once Jaskier had rounded the courtyard twice, he huffed and slumped down to sit on a carved, stone bench, resting his chin on his hand as he looked around, heart dropping as doubt settled in.

Liliana wouldn’t have lied to him about this. She dropped the courtyard hint for a reason. There had to be something here, something he was missing! 

Jaskier took in a deep breath, trying to quash the frustration that was growing within him. He glanced up as he heard laughter and chatter, seeing a gaggle of well-dressed noble women coming into the courtyard. 

Suspicious and curious gazes were aimed his way, but they all seemed to stay away from him, sitting a small distance away on another bench. Jaskier stared at them, a frown creasing his brow as he studied them. They shot looks at him every now and again, eyeing off his dishevelled, simple clothes, seeing as he wasn’t wearing one of his tailored outfits. 

Jaskier tilted his head as he met their gazes. Perhaps it was one of them that Liliana was leading him towards? 

That idea was quickly quashed when the disdained looks were still sent his way, as though he was a stain upon one of their fancy dresses, and he could hear their mutters about who he was, that he was just some prisoner and that he shouldn’t be allowed to mingle with the nobility.

Jaskier bowed his head, not letting them see as he rolled his eyes. Clearly Emhyr hadn’t spread the news that Jaskier was to be Nilfgaard’s Royal Bard. Sighing, he looked up when he heard laughter, seeing his guards had been distracted by the noble ladies. He glanced about, eyes drifting over the different corridor entries before he froze, suddenly realising that one of the corridors didn’t have guards standing there, lined against the wall unlike the other corridors.

Straightening up, Jaskier glanced around, heart thumping hard in his chest as he finally realised the chance that Liliana was giving him. Moving quickly, but carefully, Jaskier shifted around the trees so he was hidden from the guards’ sights before he got to his feet and quickly ducked off down into one of the corridors, heart racing in his chest. 

Jaskier tried to keep his stride even and calm, not wanting to alert anyone that something was wrong, that he shouldn’t be there. His heart was racing excitedly and nervously in his chest as he got further away from the courtyard, glancing around to try and discover a way out of the palace, but he didn’t let himself believe that he was away just yet…it was too soon. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, only for it to come crashing down around him. 

“Jaskier!” 

Jaskier flinched at the call, shoulders slumping slightly before he spun on his heel, fixing a smile upon his face as he watched the red-haired medic stride towards him, a frown upon his face.

“Jon!” Jaskier returned cheerfully as the medic stopped in front him, green eyes stern as they stared at the bard. “Fancy seeing you here!”

“Jaskier,” Jon said quietly, warningly. “What are you doing here? Where are your guards?”

“Just went for a little jaunt,” Jaskier said simply, giving a shrug as though it was no big deal, but he could tell by Jon’s piercing gaze that he wasn’t buying it. 

“ _Please_ tell me you weren’t trying to escape,” Jon whispered pleadingly as he stared at Jaskier. Jaskier’s shoulders dropped at that, fists clenching by his sides.

“I have to get out, Jon, I have to get out of here!” Jaskier hissed in return. Jon just shook his head before running a hand through his curls with agitation. 

“Jaskier…”

“I can’t be a prisoner, Jon! You told me to have hope, but I can’t just sit here and wait!” Jaskier snapped.

“HEY!” 

Jaskier flinched at the shout and at the sound of footsteps thundering towards them. His heart sunk further as he watched the guards get closer, wanting oh-so desperately to just turn on heel and run, to find the way out and never stop until he was back in Geralt’s arms. 

“What the fuck do you think you were doing?” a guard snarled as he stopped in front of Jaskier, grabbing the front of his shirt and yanking him forward. “Trying to escape?”

Jaskier just slumped in the guard’s grip, knowing his chance to flee had just come…and gone. 

“Actually, that’s my fault,” Jon spoke up, startling Jaskier, who stared at him with wide-eyes. “He saw me walking by and came to find me seeing as I haven’t seen him for the last few days…Emperor’s orders,” Jon added at the guard’s frown. 

“He came to find you?” the guard holding Jaskier repeated, looking suspiciously at Jon. 

“Yes,” Jon said simply. “I am sure he didn’t mean to cause a fuss, but as I discovered the last time we captured Jaskier, he doesn’t tend to think of the long-term consequences of his actions.”

Jaskier barely kept from scowling at that, knowing that Jon was lying to give him an out, to save him from punishment. 

The guard looked unconvinced, but he released Jaskier anyway, who stumbled back slightly before straightening up and fixing up his ruffled shirt. 

“Fine,” the guard muttered. “But walk time is over, Bard. Back to your room.”

“I will escort him,” Jon spoke up, gaining yet another suspicious look from the head guard. “I am his medic, on our emperor’s orders, and he is overdue for a check-up as I am certain you’ve heard of his antics in the training grounds yesterday?”

Jon gently grabbed Jaskier’s elbow, beginning to escort him as the guards followed. Jaskier barely kept from glancing longingly over his shoulder, not able to bear seeing his one chance to escape getting further and further away. One of the guards snorted at Jon’s question.

“Heard of?” he grinned. “We saw it happen.”

“Then you understand why I need to make sure he isn’t hiding an injury,” Jon replied simply as he glanced at Jaskier, seeing the bard’s head was lowered and shoulders slumped, looking defeated. 

“Of course,” the guard captain grumbled. “Can’t have our Imperial Majesty’s Bard dropping dead on us.”

Jon frowned at that, feeling Jaskier’s slight shudder. “Well, yes, we can’t have that.”

Jaskier tried to ignore the conversation of the guards and Jon were having, trying to keep control of his breathing as it quickened - desperation, anger and frustration boiling within him, making him feel hopeless. As much as he had tried to not give up his hope…he had been so close to finding a way out and then it was ruined.

He was stuck here. 

A choked noise managed to escape his throat as the emotions got to be too much, heart racing and stomach twisting. Jon looked at him worriedly as he heard the choked noise, his hand on Jaskier’s elbow leading him back towards his cell. 

Jon looked up as they neared Jaskier’s room, spotting Cahir coming towards them. Cahir glanced at Jaskier curiously before his gaze slipped to Jon questioningly. Jon just shook his head as they approached Cahir. 

“I was wondering where you were,” Cahir said as he fell into step with them, glancing curiously at the very quiet and despondent bard, who was staring at the floor as they walked. 

“I just ran into Jaskier, thought I’d escort him back to his room for a check-up,” Jon said easily, trying not to alert the guards to the fact that Jaskier had tried to run. Cahir just hummed as he took in the expression on Jon’s face, knowing there was more to the story.

He followed them back down the halls to the room that Jaskier had been locked in. He wanted to know what had happened, to know what foolish mischief the bard had gotten himself into this time.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Jon said once they got to the door to Jaskier’s room. “I have him from here.”

The guards nodded, taking up their usual position as Jon led Jaskier back into the room, with Cahir following close behind. 

Cahir closed the door behind him before he walked further into the room, sitting down on the couch to watch what unfolded next. 

Jaskier pulled his elbow from Jon’s grasp as soon as they were in the room, stalking away so he could pace agitatedly.

He had been so close! 

He had been so close to getting out, to making sure Ciri would be safe. 

“What were you thinking?” Jon asked him, chastising, as he watched as Jaskier paced, looking very much like a caged beast. “If I hadn’t been there, Jaskier, if those guards had caught up to you…!”

“I don’t give a fuck, Jon!” Jaskier snapped back, eyes flashing angrily as he looked to the medic. “I need to get the fuck out of here!”

“Trying to escape from a palace as fortified as this is akin to suicide!” Jon responded, which made Cahir lean forward with interest. Of course the bard had attempted to escape, Cahir should have known that Jaskier wouldn’t just sit idle and wait for a rescue. He didn’t wait for a rescue last time, trying so hard to get away, so why would this time be any different?

“I have to get out of here!” Jaskier snapped in return. “You don’t get it!” 

“I told you to have faith, Jaskier,” Jon said, standing tall as he faced the agitated, panicked bard. “But trying to escape here, surrounded by Nilfgaardian soldiers won’t work well in your favour.”

“You don’t get it, Jon!” Jaskier hissed, eyes wide and panicked, as frustrated tears brimmed within them. “I can’t wait for a rescue, not while they’re searching for Ciri! I can’t let Emhyr get her!” 

“Jaskier…”

“No, you don’t _know_ ,” Jaskier croaked as he paced, ignoring Cahir, who was watching with intrigue. 

“You do know where the princess is, don’t you?” Cahir asked, briefly gaining Jaskier’s attention.

“Of course I do, but don’t worry, your emperor already knows that I know where she is,” he said, somewhat bitterly, before he lifted his head to look at Jon, meeting his gaze evenly. “What do you know of your emperor’s plan regarding Ciri?” 

“She is the future of Nilfgaard,” Jon answered, glancing to Cahir with confusion. Cahir just gave a small shrug, unsure of where Jaskier was going with this. Jaskier turned to Cahir instead.

“And you?” he questioned darkly. “Do you know?”

“As Jon said, Cirilla is the future of Nilfgaard. She will ensure Nilfgaard’s rule,” Cahir answered. 

“And do you know how _exactly_ Ciri is meant to ensure Nilfgaard’s rule and future?” Jaskier asked them darkly, watching as they glanced at each other, frowning. Jaskier just shook his head, suddenly looking very tired and worn as the frustrated tears finally overflowed, streaming down his cheeks.

“You don’t know the reason then…the _real_ reason,” Jaskier croaked, looking up at them. Jon grew worried as he saw the tired, frustrated tears slipping down Jaskier’s cheeks.

“Jaskier?”

“Emhyr is Ciri’s birth father,” Jaskier told them. If they wanted to be blindly loyal to their emperor, then they should know _exactly_ who they were following. Jon and Cahir just stared at him, dumbfounded. “Yeah, I know, that doesn’t sound that bad…until you know exactly what he’s planning to do with Ciri.”

“Which is?” Jon questioned warily, some part of him knowing that he didn’t want to hear the true reason.

“There’s some fucked up prophecy regarding Ciri’s children,” Jaskier explained, leaning exhaustedly against the post of his bed, scrubbing the tears from his face. “Your emperor believes the only way to safe-guard Nilfgaard’s future is by making sure that Ciri’s offspring aren’t just the offspring of any random person…and he plans to do so by fathering Ciri’s children himself, forcing her to carry and bear his heirs against her will.”

Jon stumbled back at that, sitting down on the couch, unable to stand anymore. Cahir just stared at Jaskier, sunken eyes darting over Jaskier’s face, trying to find any trace of a lie.

“How do you know this?” Cahir questioned.

“Because he told me,” Jaskier said simply, tiredly. “He wanted me to tell him where Ciri was and he told me of his plan…but I refused. I refuse to give up Ciri’s location. I’m not giving up that sweet, innocent girl who has suffered so much already.”

Cahir looked to Jon, who had his face buried in his hands and was trembling slightly. 

“Jon?” Cahir pressed quietly, as Jaskier turned to face the medic, frowning when he saw the state Jon was in.

“Fine,” Jon answered gruffly before he sat up, removing his face from his hands. “M’fine…was just shocked.”

Cahir frowned at Jon, whose green eyes were a little lost and wild, but Jon paid him not attention, instead turning back to Jaskier, who was watching them. 

“You know Cirilla well then?” Jon asked, voice eerily even. Jaskier nodded tiredly as he walked over to sit on the couch beside Jon, shoulders slumping down as he slouched upon the couch. 

“Yes,” he murmured, glancing at the healer. “I knew her when she was just a child…and I’ve gotten to watch her grow over the last year or so, see her become more confident, to find her own feet. I can’t…I can’t let our little wolf get hurt, to be used in such a way, to see her broken down from the confident young woman she has become by her father of all people – who she believes is dead, by the way – for some stupid, fucking prophecy.”

Jaskier shook his head, sighing heavily as he looked to Jon, blue eyes weary and red from the tears. 

“Do you understand now why I can’t just stay here and hope for a rescue?” Jaskier asked quietly. “I can’t let him get to Ciri…to my girl,” Jaskier finished, choking slightly as he buried his face into his hands, terrified for his girl, for their brave, little wolf pup. 

Jon looked to Cahir, looking lost, unsure of what to say…unsure of what he _could_ say. Cahir just shook his head, for once lost for words. 

He knew that the emperor was just doing whatever he could to ensure Nilfgaard’s future. He knew that it was for the best, that Nilfgaard’s future came first…but still, Cahir couldn’t help but feel some odd feeling deep down in his stomach, almost like some sort of guilt and doubt…but he quickly pushed those treasonous feelings aside. He couldn’t doubt his emperor. The emperor only wanted what was best for Nilfgaard…no matter the cost. 

Cahir looked back to Jon, seeing he had his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, which was heaving slightly as the bard finally broke down, feeling defeated. 

His escape had failed…and he feared for the girl, the one he seemed to care for deeply, almost like a daughter, Cahir realised. 

However, he found his gaze drifting from the distraught bard and back to Jon. Jon was doing his best to comfort Jaskier, but Cahir could see how affected the healer was by Jaskier’s admission. Jon’s steady, healer hands were shaking ever so slightly as he touched Jaskier’s shoulder as he murmured to the bard. His green eyes were wide and slightly haunted, looking larger and brighter against his visibly paled face. 

Cahir knew that Jaskier’s admission had brought back painful memories for Jon, ones that Cahir could never fully understand. He knew how the Usurper hurt Jon, but he was never harmed himself in such a way, so he could never truly understand what Jon went through, how it affected him.

Cahir had been appointed commander by their emperor and had been tasked with leading troops for the attack on Cintra, tasked with the important duty of finding Cirilla. He was a tactician, a warrior…yet when it came to helping Jon, his oldest friend, he had no idea of where to begin.

He only hoped his friend didn’t do anything too rash or foolish. He didn’t want to lose his friend…not to this, not because of this. 

Jon paced outside of the emperor’s office a couple of days later, waiting to be admitted. He just couldn’t get what Jaskier said out of his head…and he needed to know that what Jaskier had said was correct and that Jaskier hadn’t misunderstood their emperor’s plans. 

He straightened up as Mererid came out, eyeing the somewhat ruffled healer. 

“Our Imperial Majesty will see you now,” Mererid announced, even as his eyes narrowed in concern. Jon just smiled weakly at him, nodding thankfully before entering the imperial office before Mererid could ask any questions of him. 

The emperor looked up as he entered, looking mildly surprised to see him. 

“Jon,” the emperor greeted, placing his quill aside. “What brings you here? Any news on Jaskier?” 

Jon nodded as he straightened into a parade rest. “Yes, I do have some news on Jaskier,” Jon admitted quietly. “Two days past Jaskier attempted to escape.”

Emhyr frowned at that, leaning back. “His guards did not inform me of this.”

“Well, they did not know that he was attempting to find a way to escape,” Jon admitted hesitantly. 

“Explain.”

“I was walking down one of the corridors near to the courtyard and found Jaskier walking through them, by himself, and looking around – very clearly trying to find the way out,” Jon explained. “I called his name and he stopped, turning to face me. I could see the disappointment in his eyes, knowing that he had been caught. The guards caught up to us not long after…and I told them that Jaskier had spotted me and had come to see me.”

Emhyr frowned at that. “Why lie?”

“One of the guards grabbed Jaskier and I just watched Jaskier slump in his grip, looking absolutely hopeless,” Jon said, staring just above the emperor’s head, unable to meet his emperor’s gaze. “I knew that if the guards found out that Jaskier had slipped from their grasp that they would take their anger out on him, to punish him…and I couldn’t allow that. You put me in charge of his health and wellbeing, to have him beaten there by angry guards – who would feel slighted – I knew would be detrimental to his health. That is why I’m telling you directly. You will choose a suitable punishment for him, not just a beating from the guards.”

Emhyr hummed low in his throat at that. He understood what Jon was saying. Despite him giving orders that Jaskier was not to be hurt, he knew that any soldier – if they felt like they had been humiliated or slighted, such as by their charge escaping from them – would take it out on the bard. 

“Did he try to fight or run when the guards caught up?” Emhyr questioned curiously.

“No,” Jon answered with a small shake of his head, curls bouncing with the motion. “He just slumped and looked defeated, but he didn’t attempt to run…despite how much I could see he wished he could.”

Emhyr made a thoughtful noise at that, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. 

“Which is another reason why I did not tell the guards,” Jon continued. “They didn’t really know that he was trying to escape and he didn’t fight them, so I saw no reason to tell them and increase their fury. I knew you would find the suitable punishment for him, which won’t cause him to spiral.”

Emhyr tilted his head slightly, giving a low chuckle. “There isn’t any reason to punish the bard,” Emhyr said, startling Jon. “I fully expected Jaskier to try and escape. He did so previously, and he isn’t one I see as acting as a damsel in distress. The clothes and the somewhat nervous behaviour when it comes to danger is just an act, that way people underestimate him and he is free to use that sharp mind of his to plan his escape.”

Jon just stared at Emhyr, speechless. 

“When you have him standing next to the Witcher, people tend to view him as weak and helpless, especially since the Witcher always jumps in to protect him, to save him…but he is quite capable by himself – whether it is talking himself out of trouble or managing to slip away,” Emhyr explained. He had had time to study Jaskier during his stay in Cintra, seeing how he acted amongst the nobles. He had watched as Jaskier always managed to slip his way out of trouble, to escape vengeful cuckolds who sought to break his legs or cut his balls off. 

He was smart, but he was constantly underestimated, which worked in Jaskier’s favour more often than not. 

“You’re not going to punish him?” Jon repeated, still lost.

“As I said, I fully expected him to try and find a way out,” Emhyr repeated. “However, he did not attack any of my men nor did he try to run when he was discovered. Jaskier discovering for himself that there is no way out will work in our favour, as he will not try anything foolish…but as he did not try to attack my men nor actually attempted to run, I can overlook this one as it should work in our favour. He will now know that that one chance that he had found is gone and that there will be no other opportunities. The crushing disappointment of that discovery is punishment enough for the emotional bard.” 

Jon inclined his head, still shocked by that, but he would not argue against his emperor’s decision. Besides, the emperor was correct, the disappointment and anxiety that Jaskier was feeling due to his failed escape attempt was punishment enough. 

Emhyr looked at the medic, cool brown eyes taking in the ruffled appearance of the usually put together healer.

“What else is on your mind, Jon?” Emhyr questioned, curious to know what had affected the medic in such a way, watching as Jon hesitated. “Speak freely, Jon. I know you aren’t one to complain or bring something before me unless it was important, so speak.”

“Once I got Jaskier back to his room, he became rather agitated, kept saying that needed to get out,” Jon said slowly, carefully. “I questioned why he would risk his life on such a foolish attempt…and he told me that he needed to protect Ciri…from you.”

“Ah,” Emhyr hummed, leaning back as he pressed his fingertips together, regarding Jon. “What did he tell you?”

“That there’s a prophecy and that Cirilla’s offspring will be the one to ensure Nilfgaard’s future and security, that they will be powerful,” Jon explained. “He said…he told of your plan to ensure this, that you would be the one to father her offspring…your daughter’s offspring.”

“He told you of that, did he?” Emhyr asked coldly. Jon winced and gave a small nod, watching as Emhyr’s eyes narrowed, going cold before the emperor asked, “And what do you think of it, Jon? Come to argue against my plan?”

“N-No, of course not, my Lord,” Jon stammered quickly. “I know that you just have Nilfgaard’s future and wellbeing in mind, that you want to do what is best for us.”

Emhyr tilted his head slightly as he regarded Jon. “I am sensing a ‘but’ in there.”

“I don’t want to overstep, Your Majesty,” Jon said submissively, bowing his head. Emhyr eyed the medic up and down.

Jon wasn’t one to speak up against him, not unless he had a reason…and Emhyr was still curious as to what was affecting the medic so…and besides, if Jon displeased him, then Emhyr would have him punished.

“Speak,” Emhyr ordered him. “Enough of this pussyfooting. Just speak.”

Jon swallowed before he gave a small nod, taking in a shaky breath. 

“Your Majesty, you know what the Usurper did to me,” Jon started off, surprising Emhyr, not expecting the medic to go there. “You found me in his room after all when you took back Nilfgaard.”

“Yes, what about it?” Emhyr questioned. 

“I struggled with what he was doing to me,” Jon continued on quietly, eyes lost and hollow. “Every day I wanted it to just…end. Every time I went to sleep I wanted to not wake up…but I couldn’t, because he was threatening the men I worked with, who I treated.”

Emhyr frowned at that, unsure of where Jon was going with this.

“You did well to protect the men you served with,” Emhyr told him truthfully, “but what is your point?”

Jon straightened up slightly, meeting Emhyr’s gaze. “The Usurper knew that threatening the men would keep me in line, but it didn’t stop me from breaking, from just wanting it to end. I fear for Cirilla’s mental and emotional wellbeing when she discovers what you want her for, not to mention that you’re her father which will cause a great amount of distress to her.”

Emhyr’s gaze hardened and Jon swallowed.

“A-As I said, Sire, I understand the reasoning behind your decision…but I also know what Cirilla would feel if she were made to carry your children, because you’d hurt Jaskier otherwise…because I experienced the exact same thing, the exact same feelings. I know what it’s like to be abused, to be blackmailed and broken down,” Jon’s voice broke slightly and he cleared his throat. “I’m not trying to insult you, Your Majesty…but I fear for her health. I know that you wouldn’t allow any harm to come to her, but she’s also just a child, if it becomes too much…she could, well, just give up.” 

Emhyr blinked at that, taken aback by the bluntness. He knew that Jon wasn’t trying to insult him, but he also brought up valid points.

Suddenly Jaskier’s voice echoed through his head again.

_Monster. Monster. Monster._

Could he drive Ciri to give up, to just end it all? Could he hurt her that much, just trying to secure her future and the future of Nilfgaard? Would it break her that badly?

“I also believe using Jaskier against her will only serve to make her rebel,” Jon’s voice softly broke through doubtful internal questioning. “From the way Jaskier spoke about her, well, it sounds like they are rather close, like he’s her big brother or…or almost like a father figure to her.” 

“Hmm,” Emhyr just hummed in response, filing that information away for later and focusing back on Jon, who still looked uncertain as he stared back. “Tell me, Jon, why tell me all of this? I could say that you’ve been doubting me and have you punished, I know that you know this, but you still risked it…why?” 

Jon straightened his back, rolling his shoulders back as he took a steeling breath.

“I was trained to protect everyone I could, to ensure their safety and wellbeing, whether it be their physical health…or their mental and emotional health,” Jon said carefully. “I’ve had firsthand experience when it comes to certain types of abuse – though I’m not saying you would hurt her in such a way, Sire,” Jon added on hastily, “but it gives me a greater understanding. I understand that Ciri’s offspring may ensure Nilfgaard’s future, but her safety and wellbeing has to be guaranteed and looked after also, otherwise she could just break…and you could lose both your daughter and the children she may have been carrying. I just…I just wanted you to hear from someone who may understand what Ciri may feel, just so you could understand, just to ensure everything is considered and measures are taken to protect her emotional and mental wellbeing.”

Emhyr was silent as he stared at Jon, letting those words sink in. Jon wasn’t telling him not to go with the plan, not in any measure, but he was asking Emhyr to consider all factors…ones that Emhyr hadn’t actually thought about himself.

_Monster. Monster. Monster._

The Usurper had been a monster. Emhyr had seen firsthand the state Jon had been in during the uprising, when he had come across the battered and bruised teenager with the haunted, empty green eyes in the Usurper’s room. He looked back at Jon, noting the trembling hands and the haunted look within the green eyes. 

It seemed, even over a decade later, that Jon was still affected, still tortured by the memories of the pain and suffering he was forced through at the hands of the Usurper. 

“I will take note of what you said,” Emhyr said finally, hearing Jon’s slight, relieved exhale. If another had come to Emhyr, to speak to him of his plan regarding Ciri, then Emhyr would have had had them punished…but he knew Jon was speaking from experience, was just trying to help him consider all of the factors to ensure nothing with Cirilla went wrong. “That is all.”

Jon bowed down low before turning to leave.

“Take a day or two off of your duties,” Emhyr ordered him suddenly, surprising even himself…but even he could see that Jon was struggling with memories and he could be a benevolent leader when the situation called for it, when one of his people deserved it. 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Jon bowed down low again, shocked, before he left. 

Once he left, Emhyr sighed, leaning back in his comfortable chair as he considered Jon’s words and Jon’s past. 

_Monster. Monster. Monster._

Emhyr closed his eyes as Jaskier’s words echoed through his head once more. He wasn’t a monster, not like the Usurper. The Usurper just wanted to use people, to hurt them to get his pleasure. Emhyr wasn’t going to use Cirilla, his own daughter, to get pleasure, but to ensure her future and the future of their line. 

He wasn’t a monster…not like the Usurper.

…but still, he couldn’t help but seeing Cirilla’s green eyes, so much like her mother’s, staring at him, haunted and filled with fear and disgust, with her so lifeless and just numb.  
Sighing, Emhyr pressed his hand across his eyes, feeling a headache coming on, as doubt began to cloud his mind. 

What was he to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, there it is...  
> Sorry its taken a bit, but this module I'm doing for my course has been frustrating...and lockdown has been causing some anxiety...
> 
> Thanks for all of the comments, they've really brightened my days!  
> Let me know what you think!


	16. Change of Heart

Geralt sat in the courtyard, perched on a barely holding stone wall, as he turned the dagger in his hands. He frowned as he studied it, the sunlight catching the sharp blade as his fingers caught on the engravings in the handle. He stopped the turning of the blade, just so he could run his calloused fingers over the flower engravings in the hilt. 

A small, sad smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he remembered training with Jaskier with this dagger, just making sure he could defend himself if he had to. He could hear Lambert’s and Eskel’s shouts of encouragement and jeers to Geralt, remembering Jaskier’s carefree laugh at the shouts as he lightly danced about, dodging Geralt’s ‘attacks’.  
He glanced up at the sound of a yell, shaking his head and chuckling slightly when he saw that it was just Ciri attack the training dummy once again. Steady footsteps approached and Geralt twisted slightly to see Vesemir’s approach. 

“Very surprising your girl,” Vesemir groaned as he shifted down to sit on the wall beside Geralt. 

Geralt peered sideways at him, arching an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You recall how we discovered that, despite Ciri’s powers, that she cannot use the Signs?”

That was something Geralt knew. Eskel had been so patient, trying to teach Ciri, to coax anything out of her, but she just didn’t have the gift. She had been disappointed – and Geralt knew she still tried to get any of the Signs to work – but also relieved in a way, knowing that she couldn’t lose control when using the Signs, and she didn’t have to go through those lessons anymore. She did love learning with Eskel, but it had been frustrating trying to learn something she could never use.

“Mm?” Geralt hummed, confused about where Vesemir was going with this. 

“Well, something rather curious…and a little shocking…occurred this morning,” Vesemir continued on. “We were training, having a little practice spar, and she went to dodge one of my blows…except she was in front of me in one moment and then behind me within a blink of an eye.”

“Not just getting slow?” Geralt asked with a smirk, which Vesemir returning with a reproving look, reaching up to scuff the back of Geralt’s head. 

“Manners, Wolf,” Vesemir growled at him. “You’re still not too old for me to tan your rear or to send you running the Gauntlet.” 

Geralt nodded sheepishly at that, knowing that Vesemir could probably still beat him in a spar – especially with the weakened condition he was in – and he knew the older Wolf probably wouldn’t think twice about tanning his hide, no matter how old Geralt was now. 

“What do you think it is then?” questioned Geralt as he turned his attention back to the dagger in his hands. Vesemir’s gaze flickered down to the dagger also, his golden eyes saddening at the sight. 

“Could be anything,” Vesemir sighed in response. “It could be that this could be her powers growing, beginning to flourish and express itself in new ways. I have informed Yennefer,” Vesemir added, though he didn’t sound too pleased about that. He and Yennefer tended to butt heads since Yennefer liked to be in charge, even within Vesemir’s Keep. “We will keep an eye on Ciri, see if it happens again.”

“What did Ciri think?”

“She just believed she moved quickly,” sighed the elder Witcher, “that it was just adrenaline.”

“Ah,” Geralt grunted, glancing back to Ciri – who for a change seemed carefree but focused as she attacked the dummy. He did worry about her. She had gone through so much in her life, from losing her parents to losing _everything_. Yet, she remained so strong. Yes, there had been times where she just broke down, when the world and the memories came too much, but Geralt didn’t hold that against her. It was a bit awkward for him at times, not exactly knowing how to properly comfort her…but he wasn’t going to demand that she stop it, like he would have been ordered when he was a child being trained. 

Jaskier had been the one that knew how to properly act around Ciri, how to comfort her when she felt burdened by her grief, engulfed by the darkness. He was the one who knew what to say, when to try and get her to talk or when to just lay beside her and let her cry out her grief into his chest. 

He knew that she missed Jaskier, that she was scared for him. He knew that was why she was training so hard, just wanting to distract herself, to prove herself useful. 

Eskel had been trying to get Ciri to rest, concerned that she would burn herself out. Vesemir though had the power to actually do so, making Ciri come inside the keep and go over the beastiary instead. There was no way that Ciri would disobey Uncle Vesemir, especially when he got that disapproving look on his face. 

“Ciri needs to rest,” Geralt grunted finally as he twisted the dagger in his hands. 

“And she will shortly,” Vesemir returned. “She’s just working out some frustration, but once Eskel arrives with the supplies she can help unload them and then she can rest. Her mind might be a bit more at ease then.”

“Mm,” Geralt just hummed in reply, though part of him was relieved to know that Eskel was almost home. 

“And then you should get some rest too, Wolf,” Vesemir added on, resting his hand on Geralt’s shoulder. He frowned at how cold Geralt felt, even through the relatively thin shirt. Usually Witchers were quite adept at regulating body temperature when needed, so Geralt should have been exuding some sort of body heat – even just human standard body heat – but he felt cold to the touch. “You’re too cold, lad.”

Geralt peered sideways at him at that. “I feel fine.”

“Mm, you don’t look it, Geralt,” Vesemir sighed, though Geralt seemed unconcerned, just focused on the dagger he was twisting around and around his hands. “Is that the one you bought for Jaskier?”

“Yes,” the younger Witcher murmured, somewhat brokenly. “He used it to cut Roach’s reins so she could get away, knowing I’d need her…and then Nilfgaard used it to pin his ransom note to our packs.”

Vesemir exhaled heavily at that, staring at the dagger – which was incredibly Jaskier with the engraved flowers in the hilt. 

“Why are you carrying it with you, Geralt?” questioned Vesemir. It was something the elder Witcher had noticed, that Geralt always had the dagger with him. It was usually tucked into a sheathe in his boot, with part of the hilt showing, or he had it placed somewhere safe in the training yard during the most full-on spars. 

“As a reminder, as a promise,” Geralt answered gruffly, “to get Jaskier back.”

“So you carry that?”

“I wasn’t going to carry his lute around,” responded Geralt incredulously. “He’d be pissed if I accidentally damaged it.”

Vesemir rolled his eyes, swatting Geralt across the back of the head again. “Not what I meant, Geralt.”

Geralt sighed heavily once more, turning his gaze back towards the dagger and away from his mentor before he quietly answered, “I just…I just needed something of his, just to remind me that I will get him back.”

Vesemir squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, feeling for his broken-hearted, worried pup. He hated seeing Geralt like this. He was used to the gruff, but usually calm and easy going, young Witcher, especially when he was at home in Kaer Morhen and with his brothers. Seeing Geralt like this, broken hearted and haunted, worried for the man that he loved…it hurt Vesemir to see, especially since he had practically raised Geralt since he was a young boy, since Geralt was _his_ Child Surprise. 

“Hang onto it then, son,” Vesemir murmured in his ear. “That way you can give it back when we get him.”

Geralt shifted so he could lean against Vesemir’s side, and Vesemir immediately wrapped his arm around Geralt, holding his son close. Geralt usually wasn’t this tactile. They had their welcome and good-bye hugs, but never easy affection like this, so Vesemir wasn’t going to push away this chance. 

“Let that dagger be the reason you keep pushing, Geralt, but also to remember what you’re fighting for,” Vesemir said softly into his ear, just for Geralt to hear, not for the winds to carry. “Know that you need to be in perfect fighting shape for Jaskier. Look at this and remember that you shouldn’t push yourself to the point of collapse, that you need to be healthy, so you can return this dagger to its rightful, bright, cheery and talkative owner.”

Geralt nodded, exhaling softly as he rested his head against Vesemir’s shoulder, against the soft worn leather material of the gambeson Vesemir wore at the keep, feeling exhausted. He let his arms fall loosely, resting them against his legs, dagger held loosely in his grip. Geralt’s eyes fluttered close, comforted as he listened to Vesemir’s very slow, steady heartbeat. 

They both sat there in silence for a while, with Vesemir keeping an eye on Ciri as Geralt rested against him, until a distant echo of a horse whinnying and a donkey braying reached them.

“Ah, Eskel has returned,” Vesemir mused as Geralt sat up. “We should go greet him.”

Geralt nodded silently, bending down to sheathe the dagger back into his boot. Vesemir watched him, a frown etched onto his aging face, as Geralt adjusted the dagger, making sure it was sat right, so only part of the hilt was visible from the top of his boot. 

“Ciri!” Vesemir bellowed as they both stood up, just to be certain Ciri heard him. “Put your training sword down and come help us.”

“Coming, Uncle Vesemir!” 

Ciri darted over to join them as they walked towards the gate, breathing heavily with exertion from her training. She grinned up at Geralt as she fell into step beside him and he returned the smile, reaching out to tussle her hair. Geralt moved to open the gate as Ciri bounced beside Vesemir, a wide smile splitting her face when she saw Eskel approaching, leading Scorpion who was pulling a cart behind him.

“Eskel!” Ciri greeted excitedly, waving her arms in greeting as Geralt opened the gate enough for Eskel to get through.

“Hey, little Wolf!” Eskel greeted in return, a rare full smile pulling at his scarred lips. “Don’t shut the gate behind me, Geralt, I’ve got a friend with another cart.”

“What friend?” Vesemir asked sharply. He was always wary about who came to the keep and for good reason.

“It’s Luka, the blacksmith apprentice from the village, you know, Celia’s the seamstress’s son, the one who Geralt saved,” Eskel explained. “Yennefer added on extra supplies to the list you gave me and, well, it would have been too much to bring back up…and Celia gathered extra supplies for us, so I needed another cart and Luka volunteered to help bring it back up.”

“All right then,” Vesemir sighed, relenting. He knew and trusted Celia, having known her since she was a young girl. She had always been fearless and brave, approaching the Witchers when they stopped at the village for supplies. 

Luka had managed to catch up by then, having had issues wrangling the donkey towards the gate. He stared at the crumbling keep in awe as he entered the gate, which Geralt closed behind him. 

“Vesemir,” Luka greeted respectfully once he spotted the elder Witcher. “I hope you don’t mind but Mum was concerned when Eskel came down for supplies so early in the year and decided to add on more supplies than Scorpion could safely handle.”

Vesemir chuckled lowly at that. “Your mother has always been a sharp woman. I’m not surprised she figured out that things weren’t normal this year.”

Luka nodded before glancing to Geralt and smiling. “Geralt.”

“Luka,” Geralt greeted in return. Luka frowned slightly as he took in Geralt, taking in the paler than usual pallor and just the flatness of his voice and eyes. His gaze caught on the dagger hilt, barely noticeable out of Geralt’s boot. Luka immediately recognized it. It had been one that he had helped to make after all, and he had been the one to sell it to Geralt for his friend. 

Geralt stiffened suddenly having realised what Luka’s gaze had been drawn to.

“That was the dagger that you bought for your friend,” Luka said quietly, looking back up to Geralt as Ciri squealed behind them as Eskel hoisted up over his shoulder and spun around, making Vesemir roll his eyes fondly. “Did…did something happen? Mum was concerned when she heard that you needed supplies so early, since its usually just Vesemir here.”

Geralt couldn’t find the words, just staring at Luka. 

“Our friend was taken,” Vesemir spoke up from behind them, catching Luka’s attention. “Geralt was injured and needed to time to recover while we try and figure out where our friend was taken to.”

Luka frowned at that. “Do you know who has him?” he asked worriedly. “I have blacksmith friends across the Continent and we’ve got a pretty good system, you know, so we know what towns and Lords to stay away from, where we’re more than likely to get ripped off.”

“Nilfgaard,” Vesemir sighed as Eskel walked over, a giggling Ciri still hoisted over his shoulder. “Our bard was taken by Nilfgaard.”

Luka frown deepened, but he looked thoughtful. “I might know a blacksmith or two with Nilfgaardian ties, I can ask them to listen out for any news of your friend?”

“I don’t want you putting yourself or your friends at risk,” Vesemir told him sternly before softening as he looked at Geralt, “but if they just happen to hear anything, we’d greatly appreciate any scrap of news that would help us track Jaskier down.”

Luka nodded, glancing to Geralt. The white-haired Witcher was usually quiet, but he always had a spark of something in his eyes whenever Luka spoke to him…but now there was just emptiness in Geralt’s golden eyes.

Whoever this friend was, he clearly meant a lot to Geralt. 

“Ah, Eskel, you’re back,” a sharp, female voice said, which definitely got Luka’s attention. He saw Vesemir roll his eyes before he spotted the tall, elegantly dressed woman stalking towards them with the purple eyes and dark hair with loose curls. “Did you get what I asked for?”

“Yes, Yennefer,” Eskel sighed as he placed Ciri back on the ground. 

“Had to make Eskel bring up another cart, with the help of a friend,” Vesemir told her sternly. He did hate it when Yennefer went over his head and didn’t ask his permission, despite Kaer Morhen being _his_ home. It would be if he went to Aretuza and acted in such a way…but he wouldn’t, because he had more respect than that, especially for Tissaia. 

“How interesting,” Yennefer drawled as she looked over the items piled in the second cart. Vesemir just sighed, shaking his head as he exchanged a look with Eskel, who just gave a lopsided, commiserating grin and a small shrug. 

Luka watched the oddly terrifying woman looking over the items in the cart before he shook his head, not wanting to gain her attention. Instead he looked to the young ashen haired teenager who had moved to stand beside Geralt.

“I don’t believe we’ve met before,” Luka told her with a smile. She looked up at Geralt uncertainly, but Geralt just nodded his head with a small smile. 

“I’m…I’m Ciri,” she introduced herself shakily. Luka smiled warmly at her.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ciri,” he said. “You know, I always wanted to see Kaer Morhen. I’ve known the Witchers for years, especially Geralt since he saved my life when I was a boy.”

Ciri stared up at Geralt, wide-eyed at that. Geralt gave a small nod of confirmation, which made Ciri smile.

“So how did you end up here at Kaer Morhen, Ciri?” Luka asked curiously. “I thought there could be no more Witchers.”

“Ciri is my ward,” Geralt spoke shortly. Luka smiled, understanding.

“Another one you saved then, Geralt?”

“Mm,” Geralt grunted.

“And why do you want to know?” Yennefer’s cold voice drawled from behind them, making Luka spin around, skin crawling with fear. 

“N-No reason in p-particular,” Luka stammered, looking at her narrowed purple eyes. “Just wanted to be polite, like Ma taught me.”

“Leave the boy alone, Yennefer,” Vesemir scolded her. “I’ve known Luka’s mother since she was a girl; they are a trustworthy family. Besides, he’s the reason all of your things got here since he led the second cart.”

“Why so eager to volunteer?” Yennefer just asked Luka darkly. “Why bring yourself the wolves den?”

Vesemir rolled his eyes so hard that Eskel was surprised they didn’t get stuck that way, as Geralt gave a low, exasperated sigh and Ciri frowned. Luka frowned at her words.

“I’ve known the Witchers since I was born,” he said, confused. “I’ve never been scared of them as they’ve always been nice to Mum, even though Lambert’s a bit of a sarcastic prick at times, and Geralt saved my life when I was a boy. I always wanted to see Kaer Morhen too, so when Eskel needed another cart to carry your supplies and all of the extra supplies Mum added in, I volunteered…that way I could help the men who always help us and so I could finally see Kaer Morhen.”

Yennefer eyed him suspiciously.

“Enough, Yennefer,” Vesemir said once more sternly. “Luka and his family are allies to us Witchers. I will not have you accusing them of anything.”

Yennefer spun to face Vesemir, lips twisted into a scowl. “You know why I’m being so vigilant, Vesemir! We can’t allow people to come snooping, what if news spreads of where Geralt is, where Ciri is?”

“I would never!” Luka cried out in defence. “I would never risk the Witchers who protect us, who saved me!” 

“The village has kept us supplied and has kept us safe for years,” Vesemir agreed solemnly. “Once they saw the fires burning from the Sacking, they came to assist us…but it was too late.”

“They didn’t try to stop the invaders?” Yennefer questioned as Geralt’s arm tightened around Ciri’s shoulder and Eskel stiffened, as mention of the Sacking always brought back horrible memories. Though they had been on the Path at the time, they had returned to find their home in ruins and almost everyone they had known, who had trained them, dead. 

“The raiders used mages to attack us,” Eskel spoke up hoarsely. “They didn’t have to go through the village to get to us.”

“We would have warned Kaer Morhen if we had known,” Luka said, though it had been before he had been born. “But my village didn’t know until they saw the smoke.”

Yennefer just made a noise in her throat before turning back to her supplies. “Ciri, dear, come help me carry this inside.”

Ciri looked up to Geralt again, who gave a small nod, and sighed. “Yes, Yennefer.”

Vesemir gently touched Ciri’s shoulder, smiling at her as she went past before Eskel scuffed up her hair, making her pout. 

“Well, I should start heading home,” Luka said with a smile. “Mum will get worried if I’m not home soon.”

Vesemir frowned at that, glancing through the gate. “It’s not safe for you to go down alone. The path is dangerous enough for Witchers – more so for someone who doesn’t know the trail all that well.”

“I can take him back down,” Eskel suggested, which caused Ciri to spin on heel to look at him.

“But, Eskel, you promised you’d help me with my stances!” Ciri said, looking at him with wide eyes. 

“I know, little Wolf, but we can’t let our friend go down the mountain alone, can we?” Eskel rebutted gently, which made Ciri sigh but nod. 

“I can portal him down,” Yennefer spoke up, looking at them incredulously. “That way he’s down and safe…and out of my way.” 

“Is it…is it safe?” Luka asked nervously, looking to Geralt and Vesemir.

“Yes, but you’ll probably vomit,” Geralt spoke up, looking to Yennefer.

“Only those with weak stomachs do that,” she retorted with an arched eyebrow directed at Geralt.

“I wouldn’t let her take you through a portal if I didn’t think you’d be safe,” Vesemir reassured him, shooting displeased looks at Yennefer and Geralt. Luka nodded, relaxing slightly. He knew that Vesemir would never lie to him, not about this. 

“Good, it’s decided then,” Vesemir sighed. “Yennefer will take Luka back to the village and Eskel and Ciri will help me unpack the carts.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow as he turned to his mentor. “And me?”

“Will oversee everything of course, Wolf,” Vesemir told him, amusement dancing in his eyes but his voice firm. “Make sure Ciri doesn’t rush with anything.”

“Hey!”

“You’re too eager sometimes, little Wolf,” Vesemir chuckled as he lightly tugged at her braid. “Too eager for an old wolf like me.”

“Come on,” Yennefer said shortly. “I want to get this over with.”

Luka turned to face Vesemir again, smiling at him. “Mum said to just let her know if you need anything else. You can keep the donkey and cart until winter pick up if you like.”

“Tell her I will,” Vesemir inclined his head, “but I will be down to stock up on winter supplies as usual. I will bring the cart down then, but tell your mother to let me know if she needs it and I’ll bring it down.” 

Though the winter stock up would probably for more bodies this year, Vesemir thought but wisely didn’t say. Hopefully it would because Jaskier was back, along with Lambert, but Vesemir doubted it.

The weather was growing colder by the day, yet they still had no lead on their young bard. 

“Until next time, Geralt,” Luka said, turning to the white haired Witcher and breaking Vesemir from his morose thoughts. “And I will reach out to the blacksmiths I know, to see if they’ve heard anything about your friend Jaskier.”

“Thank you, Luka,” Geralt said quietly. “Take care.” 

Eskel and Ciri paused by the cart to watch as Yennefer conjured the portal. 

“Stay close to me now,” she ordered him, hand clasping Luka’s shoulder tight. “Don’t want you getting lost.”

“Wait, what?!”

“She’s kidding!” Ciri called after him just before Yennefer led him through the portal. 

“Come now, Ciri, Eskel, let’s get all of this indoors,” Vesemir sighed as the portal disappeared. “Geralt, you supervise and make sure Ciri doesn’t rush.”

Geralt sighed but nodded, settling down against one of the carts to keep watch. He watched as Ciri and Eskel started carrying the supplies inside, following Vesemir, before he sighed once again, feeling oddly restless. 

A cold wind whistled through the iron gate, whipping Geralt’s hair across his face and chilling his skin, before the realisation caused a chill to run through his blood, heart skipping a beat.

Winter was approaching quickly, far too quickly, and Geralt knew that if they hadn’t found by Jaskier by then, then there was nothing more they could do until the snow melted. 

A lump formed in his throat at that thought. 

They had to find Jaskier before winter, they just had to. They couldn’t let Jaskier stay in his prisoner over winter. They just couldn’t. 

The weeks that had passed had already been bad enough and Geralt knew that Jaskier would be struggling, could be hurt, and he couldn’t let Jaskier remain there through winter, to be caged for so long.

It would break his song bird…and it would break Geralt to lose Jaskier.

Jaskier found himself being led to Emhyr’s private quarters the night after attempt at escape. His heart pounded his chest, his mouth gone dry with anxiety, but he tried to not let it show, instead just following his guards quietly. 

The guards stopped him in front of the door to Emhyr’s quarters, rapping three times on the heavy door, the sound echoing through the empty, silent corridor. 

“Enter.”

Jaskier barely kept from shivering as the cold, demanding voice came through the door. The guard opened the door and Jaskier was shoved lightly in the shoulder, getting him to step inside the room. Jaskier glanced about as he got his footing, trying to find Emhyr.

He quickly spotted the cold emperor standing in near the couches, dressed down for the evening. His cool brown eyes raked over Jaskier, taking in his rumpled clothes, before he nodded at the guards.

“Leave us,” he ordered before turning back to the bookshelf, where an elegant crystal carafe sat beside elegant silver chalices. Jaskier looked over his shoulder to watch the guards leave – this time without argument – and flinched when the door closed behind them, with a loud, final snap. 

“Sit,” Emhyr ordered. Jaskier breathed in, trying to calm his racing heart, before he did as ordered. He sat down on the edge of the couch. This wasn’t a place he could get comfortable and relax and let down his guard. He traced Emhyr’s path back to the couch, watching as the emperor came back over, carrying the two silver chalices. 

“Another chat then, I’m guessing?” Jaskier asked cautiously, barely glancing at the chalice as Emhyr placed them down on the table between them. 

“You guessed correctly,” Emhyr answered easily as he settled down on the couch opposite Jaskier, leaning back into the soft cushioning as he regarded the bard, who was still perched on the edge of the couch, looking like he would very much like to jump up and run. Emhyr smirked as he sipped the dark red wine. “Drink. I’m sure you’ll like this one.”

Jaskier shoot him a look before sighing and bending forward to pick up the chalice in front of him, knowing he couldn’t refuse. He sipped the dark red wine and couldn’t stop his small hum of approval with its woodsy and honey taste. 

“Well, I’m sure you didn’t just bring me here to get my opinion on wine,” Jaskier said slowly, carefully as he sat back, though still perched on the edge of the seat. “And we both know how our last conversation turned out.”

“Quite,” Emhyr muttered. “Though you did surprise me getting through your punishment so well…and proving that my men have clearly been lacking in their training. No wonder they can’t find my daughter.”

Jaskier stiffened at that, unable to forget why Emhyr wanted Ciri…what he would do to her. 

He sipped his wine in lieu of answering, knowing Emhyr was watching him intently. 

“Jon came to update me on how you were going,” Emhyr spoke up suddenly, surprising the bard. “Informed me that you tried to find a way to escape.”

“Can you blame me?” Jaskier asked scathingly, eyes flashing, though something painful stabbed at his chest, knowing that Jon told Emhyr that he had attempted to escape…even though he knew that he shouldn’t feel anything, knowing that Jon was loyal to Nilfgaard and wouldn’t keep it a secret from his emperor…but still…

Emhyr ignored him however, gently swirling the wine around in the chalice. “I knew you would try to find some way out, it was only a matter of time, but you did not attempt to run nor attack my men once you had been discovered – which I have to admit, I was surprised about.”

“And?” Jaskier asked grumpily, shoulders slumping somewhat moodily. He hated being reminded that his escape had failed. “Is this a prelude to you telling me how I’m going to be punished for it?”

Emhyr tilted his head slightly as he regarded the moody bard. “No,” he answered, watching as shock and surprise flitted through the bard’s expressive eyes. “I believe the devastation of knowing your escape failed, and that I’ve made sure that that route is now covered, is punishment enough.”

Jaskier took a large gulp of wine at that, letting the over-filled mouthful sting at his throat as he struggled to get it down.

Emhyr wasn’t wrong about that. The raw disappointment had caused Jaskier such anguish and anxiety, knowing freedom could have been in arm’s reach…and yet here he remained.

“Jon also informed me that you told him and Cahir about who Cirilla is to me, that she is my daughter,” Emhyr continued on, icy gaze flickering up to fix on Jaskier. Jaskier stared back defiantly, giving a small roll of a shoulder in response.

“They’re your men,” Jaskier said simply. “Don’t you think they have the right to know – since you did send them out to find her after all? Or were you afraid that they would turn on you if they learnt the truth?”

Emhyr sneered at him, anger filling his features. “I kept it secret so Ciri would not become a target to my enemies while she is still out there…unprotected!”

“She isn’t unprotected,” Jaskier shot back. “Geralt won’t let any harm come to her.”

“So you say,” Emhyr muttered, taking another sip of wine. “Such faith in your Witcher.”

Jaskier didn’t deign to dignify that with an answer, though he was brimming with anger. Emhyr didn’t know Geralt. He didn’t know that Geralt would do whatever he could to protect Ciri, that any of the Wolf Witchers would. 

“Jon did bring something to my attention,” Emhyr said a few moments later. “Factors I had not yet considered about my plans for Ciri.”

“Really?” Jaskier asked through gritted teeth. He didn’t want to hear of Emhyr’s sick plans for Ciri or how he plans to make Ciri comply. 

“Yes,” Emhyr hummed, eyes fixed on Jaskier’s face and watching his reaction. “It led me to consider my plans, to see what the fallout could be.”

Jaskier paused at that, looking at Emhyr with confusion written across his face. 

“I could lose my Ciri,” Emhyr said quietly, eyes distant. “I could lose her and any offspring she may have. My own daughter would see me as a monster, as would any children she would have. I could lose them all.”

Jaskier just stared at Emhyr, speechless. He couldn’t believe what Emhyr was saying, not after hearing his original plan. There was no way that he could have truly changed his mind.

“A-Are you serious?” Jaskier breathed. “Y-You’re not going to make her carry your heirs?”

“I’m serious,” Emhyr murmured. “And no, I’m not.”

Jaskier did truly slump back in the couch then, leaning against the back as he stared at Emhyr, dumbfounded.

“Does this mean you’ll stop hunting her?” Jaskier asked hopefully a few moments later.

“No,” the emperor answered shortly. “She is still my heir and she will become Empress of Nilfgaard. I will have her brought here so she can learn her role…and when she is old enough, I will find her a suitable husband – like Calanthe would have done.”

Jaskier understood Emhyr’s pointed words, but still he couldn’t help the relief that flooded through his veins, leaving him feeling giddy at weak. He still didn’t want Ciri here, to be moulded into an empress…not against her will. Ciri was still trying to figure out who she was and she deserved to make her own decisions.

But Jaskier wouldn’t fight Emhyr on this. He had reconsidered his foolish, monstrous plan so he wouldn’t lose his daughter. 

And Emhyr did have a point about Calanthe arranging Ciri’s marriage for her once she was old enough, but still, Jaskier hoped, Ciri would be safe in Kaer Morhen, kept far away from all of this.

“Why tell me this?” Jaskier asked as the thought crossed his mind. Emhyr hadn’t needed to tell him this. The Emperor of Nilfgaard did not need to explain his decisions to anyone nor discuss his plans…yet he had told Jaskier.

“To make you see I’m not a monster, Jaskier,” Emhyr said simply, an odd light in his eyes, before sipping his wine. “And to stop you attempting anything more foolish in your desperation to escape. I know you were being driven to escape so you could protect Ciri from me and it would have driven you to great, stupid lengths. I still need you for when I do get Cirilla, so she can see that I am not a monster, that I have not harmed nor tortured you.”

Ah, of course, Jaskier thought as he stared at Emhyr. He was told this so he didn’t do anything stupid to piss him off…because he was still useful.

Emhyr truly didn’t know Jaskier if he thought that this would stop him from trying to figure a way out, that Jaskier would just sit in his comfortable cell submissively and twiddle his thumbs.

“Enough talk for tonight,” Emhyr said as he finished his wine. “Take your lute and go back to your room.”

Jaskier blinked, startled at the abrupt change, but set his chalice down as Emhyr called for the guards. He stood and walked over to the lute that he had been given, as Emhyr indicated to it, and carefully picked it up.

“Goodnight, Your Majesty,” Jaskier said as he bowed down low, knowing the guards were watching him. “Thank you for informing me of this.”

Emhyr arched an eyebrow from where he was sitting, still staring at Jaskier, but gave a small nod.

“Don’t get yourself in any more trouble, Bard,” Emhyr warned as Jaskier walked to the door. “I may not be so forgiving next time.”

Jaskier nodded once more before he followed the guards from the room. He could feel Geralt’s medallion pressed against his chest, tucked under his shirt, the metal warm against his hirsute chest. 

No, Emhyr truly didn’t know him if he thought that this would stop Jaskier from trying to find a way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, scrambled to get this one ready for you guys since I'm working this week (first time in 6 months, thank you lockdown) and, though I absolutely adore working with these kids, they do leave me way too exhausted to write, so I wanted to make sure I had this ready to go since next update might take a little bit longer....and it's a fair bit longer than my usual chapters too ;)
> 
> Now I can start on some of the arcs I have planned :P
> 
> You've gone quiet on me these last few chapters, still enjoying where it's going?   
> I know it's been a little bit slow, but I'm trying to flow into the different events I have planned :P


	17. Trust

Jaskier hummed to himself as he strummed on the lute, sitting cross legged on the bed. He was trying to keep himself occupied, to stop his mind wandering and becoming anxious as he realised that his chance of escape was very, very low. 

Still, having the lute back helped to distract him. He was still surprised that Emhyr had given it back to him the night before.

The bard glanced up as the door opened, stiffening slightly as he saw Cahir standing there. The stern commander stared back, sunken blue eyes fixed on Jaskier sitting there.

“Put your lute down,” Cahir said as he strode into the room. “Our Imperial Majesty has said that you are to go for a walk.”

“Really?” Jaskier asked suspiciously. Emhyr knew he had tried to find a way to escape…so why let him out of his room on yet another walk?

“Yes,” Cahir answered as he stopped beside the bed, standing tall over the sitting bard, making him feel uncomfortable. “I am not sure why he’s allowing this, but I do not question my emperor’s decisions.”

“I know that far too well,” Jaskier muttered bitterly, but set his lute aside carefully in its case. “So, where are we going?” 

“You’ll see,” Cahir said simply as he stepped back, watching intently as Jaskier pulled his boots on. “Follow.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes at the curt, short order but followed after the commander anyway. He blinked in surprise when he saw that his usual squad of guards weren’t there, and the ones who guarded his door were eyeing him suspiciously but yet they weren’t moving to join.

“Hurry up,” Cahir said shortly. Jaskier quickly hurried after him as Cahir strode away. He stayed slightly behind Cahir, but still remained close to him, glancing at the guards as they walked down the halls. Cahir glanced back at him every now and again, yet he didn’t seem concerned or worried that Jaskier would attempt another escape. 

Jaskier blinked up into the bright sunlight as they stepped out into the back courtyard, peering up at the slightly cloudy sky. A slightly cool breeze blew, ruffling Jaskier’s loose clothes and making him shiver as it went straight through them, chilling his skin. 

He followed Cahir down the steps, eyeing off the soldiers training in the yard, who stared back at him. Some smirked and nodded at him, the ones who had seen his triumph in the training yard, while others scowled not liking seeing the prisoner walking around so freely. 

Jaskier’s steps faltered as he heard the sound of horses neighing and whinnying, eyes widening as they approached the stables tucked at the back of the training yard. He glanced at the closed iron gate, sighing slightly when he saw it was heavily guarded, the guards checking whoever came through the slightly opened gate. 

He looked back to see Cahir was staring at him, smirking with amusement as he looked from Jaskier to the gate.

“It’s always guarded, Jaskier,” Cahir informed him. “Even if you did manage to get out, you wouldn’t be able to make it out of the town either. The guards are stationed throughout the different quarters of Vizima. They will catch you before you left the Royal Quarter, before you stepped foot into the Trade Quarter.”

Jaskier scowled at that, huffing slightly, which just made Cahir’s smirk deepen. 

“Come on. No time to waste,” he said eventually, turning back to the stables. “I do have other duties to perform today.”

Jaskier restrained himself from rolling his eyes further, instead clenching his jaw before following Cahir into the stables. His nose twitched as the smell of hay and something that was just simply _‘horse’_. The corner of his lips twitched up into a smile at all of the heads sticking over the individual stable doors, all nickering or whinnying as the horses watched Jaskier walk past, heads bobbing up and down or tossing side to side. 

“Buttercup!” Jaskier exclaimed, shocked and happy, when he saw the familiar dappled grey hair sticking over the stall door. Buttercup whinnied happily as Jaskier ran up to her stall, immediately pressed his head against her long nose. She reached out to try and nibble at his shirt affectionately as Jaskier stroked her velvety nose.

“Oh my sweet girl,” Jaskier whispered, voice breaking. “How I’ve missed you!” 

Buttercup huffed softly before she lipped at his clothes. 

“What’s going on here?” a voice asked sharply from behind Jaskier, but he ignored it, still stroking Buttercup’s nose, heart aching tightly in his chest with how much he had missed her. 

“Ah, there you are,” Cahir’s voice mused. “Jacks, this is Jaskier. Jaskier, this is Jacks, the stable master.”

Jaskier glanced behind him, seeing a man standing there, arms folded across his chest. He was older, brown hair greying at his temples and tied in a low ponytail, deep lines surrounding dark brown eyes. He was frowning slightly as he stared at Jaskier, who still had his head resting against Buttercup’s nose. 

“Do you know this horse?” Jacks asked.

“She’s mine,” Jaskier said, glaring slightly at Jacks as he wrapped his arm loosely around Buttercup’s neck. 

“She’s the **emperor’s** ,” Cahir retorted, giving Jaskier a warning look, “but, yes, this horse was found with the bard.”

“She’s mine,” Jaskier repeated firmly, glaring at Cahir. “Geralt bought her for me.”

“Well, it explains why she isn’t biting you,” Jacks quickly interrupted, steering the conversation in a different direction. “Can’t say how many times I’ve almost lost my fingers to her.”

“Aw, sweet girl, have you been learning from Roach?” Jaskier cooed at her as he scratched her long neck the way she liked. “Who’s my smart, beautiful girl?” 

Jacks cocked an eyebrow as he watched Jaskier interact with the grey dappled mare. He looked to Cahir, who was also watching the bard, before stepping next to the commander.

“Who is this guy?” Jacks muttered into Cahir’s ear. 

“Our new Royal Bard,” Cahir returned with a smirk at Jacks’s shocked look. “The horse was a gift from the Witcher he used to follow.”

“Oh, he’s _that_ bard,” Jacks whistled under his breath, looking back to Jaskier, who was still murmuring to the horse. Cahir nodded once more, blue eyes still fixed on Jaskier. “Well, Jaskier, perhaps you could give us a hand then?”

Jaskier looked back at him, frown pulling at his lips. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I can see how much you and this horse – “

“- Buttercup,” Jaskier interrupted. “Her name is Buttercup.”

“…Buttercup then,” Jacks conceded. “Seeing how you two share a bond, and you’re the only one she isn’t biting, would you mind giving her a brush down? She tries to kick me every time I try.”

Jaskier’s eyes lit up at that, though his gaze slid to Cahir, staring at him questioningly. He knew that Emhyr was playing some sort of game, warning him, by letting him see Buttercup. It was a warning to show that Emhyr could harm her, to follow through with his threat to kill her, if Jaskier tried to escape again.

He wasn’t sure that he would be allowed to tend to her, if Emhyr would allow him to do so.

“Go ahead,” Cahir said, leaning back against a wooden post opposite Buttercup’s stall. Jaskier grinned as he turned to Jacks, who nodded back, ponytail shifting with the movement. 

“Equipment is here,” Jacks explained, pointing out the equipment to Jaskier. “Make sure you close the gate when you enter, don’t need her trying to run and getting injured in the attempt.”

Jaskier nodded, looking to Buttercup, who neighed in response. He couldn’t risk her injuring herself in her desperation to escape…she was in the same position he was. He gathered up the equipment he would need to tend to her – mostly just brushes and a pick to clean her hoofs – before he entered the stall, with Jacks making sure the gate was latched tightly behind him. Buttercup pawed the ground, tail swishing happily once Jaskier entered the stall.

“There’s my beautiful girl,” Jaskier cooed softly at her as he stroked her neck. “Don’t worry, my darling, I will get your beautiful coat back shining in the state that you deserve it to be.”

Cahir just stood, leaning against the wall, and watched as Jaskier brushed the horse down, talking and singing soft songs to her all the while. The horse seemed to relax with Jaskier brushing her down and singing to her, with her bottom lip opening slightly and nostrils rounding out. 

He smirked at the soft songs that Jaskier was singing to her…the newest one being about her shiny mane and her biting mean people’s fingers. 

Jaskier was an odd one. A man of noble birth, yet he renounced all of that to become a bard and had become disowned in the process. One who had trained at Oxenfurt, who mastered the arts, yet chose to follow a Witcher…and now he was here, captured by Nilfgaard and chosen to become the Royal Bard…and he was singing to a horse like she was a prized friend. 

Yet this was also a man who could take on trained Nilfgaardian soldiers and match them hit for hit. A fancy dressed bard who had managed to best a trained Nilfgaardian soldier, showing hidden fighting talents and strength, an unknown side to him. 

And he was still singing to his horse.

Cahir shook his head in disbelief, snorting slightly under his breath. Jaskier was definitely an enigma, a man with many different sides and hidden talents. Cahir looked up at the bard, seeing he was now murmuring softly into Buttercup’s ear as he braided her mane. 

Jaskier had suffered throughout his life. Being disowned, being cursed by a witch, being tossed aside by the Witcher who he had considered his most dearest friend, to being captured – and tortured – by Nilfgaard.

Yet here he was. 

He was here, still standing, still fighting…and still singing to his horse. 

Cahir’s thoughts suddenly drifted to Jon. He hadn’t seen his friend for a day or so now with Jon apparently being given leave by the emperor himself. From what Mererid had told him, Jon was just in his room, not wanting to be disturbed.

Cahir knew that Jon had been struggling with memories, especially after Jaskier’s revelation when it came to their emperor’s plan…and Cirilla’s true parentage. He just didn’t know what to do, what to say to help ease his friend’s mind, to ease his fears and to quell those horrid memories from his time as the Usurper’s plaything. 

Frowning, Cahir regarded Jaskier, feeling uncertainty twist in his stomach. 

He wanted to know what helped Jaskier, what helped him overcome everything and made him the cheerful, sassy, feisty bard that Cahir knew him to be. 

But, with everything that Cahir had put the bard through, he doubted that Jaskier would be so forthcoming with information about how he overcame everything, how he recovered.  
He remained silent, just watching Jaskier for now, slightly surprised to see Jaskier expertly cleaning Buttercup’s hooves as he chattered along to her.

“Now where did a Royal Bard learn how to properly care for a horse?” Jacks asked curiously as he leaned over the partition to see what Jaskier was doing. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bard so good at cleaning hooves.”

“I learnt by watching Geralt,” Jaskier explained quietly, sadly reminiscent, as he stroked Buttercup’s neck. “Once he trusted me enough to go near his horse – and she stopped biting me – he taught me how to properly care for her in case he wasn’t in the condition to do so.”

“Sounds like a good man,” Jacks said, surprising Jaskier. “A lot of people see horses as just mindless animals, only useful for pulling carts. Many don’t learn to properly care for them themselves, using gettin’ others to do that care.”

Jaskier stared at him, blue eyes wide with surprise before his lips lifted in a shaky smile.

“Yeah…yes, Geralt is a good man,” Jaskier agreed quietly, an ache squeezing at his heart. How he missed Geralt…and what he would to give to be by his side again, to see that flash of amusement and care within those golden eyes, to feel safe curled up by his side and held tightly in Geralt’s arms…knowing that Geralt would protect him.

“Come, Jaskier,” Cahir spoke up finally, breaking Jaskier from his thoughts of Geralt. “It’s time.”

Jaskier sighed sadly as he looked back to Buttercup, who nickered softly. He shifted forward so he could press his forehead against her long, soft grey and white nose. 

“You be good, my sweet girl,” he whispered to her. “I’ll be back to see you as soon as I can. Be good.” 

Buttercup neighed softly as Jaskier pulled away, stamping her hoofs grumpily and reaching out to grab his shirt in her teeth, which made him laugh – although a little sadly.

“I’m sorry, sweet girl,” Jaskier said as he extracted the shirt from her mouth. “I have to go. Be careful, my darling.”

With a final sigh and pet to her velvety nose, Jaskier managed to slip from Buttercup’s stall, making sure the gate was securely shut behind him. Buttercup immediately stretched her long neck over the partition, huffing in annoyance. 

“Good work,” Jacks praised, looking over Buttercup’s smooth and shiny coat appraisingly. “I look forward to having you back. I’ll talk to our Imperial Majesty about your skills with the horses, hopefully he will allow you to visit more often…though this isn't really a duty the Royal Bard does.”

Jaskier gave a weak smile at that with a small nod. 

“Come,” Cahir ordered before turning. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier said quietly to Jacks. “L-Look after her, please? She really loves fresh apples…t-that might stop her biting you.”

“I will, thank you,” Jacks promised with a nod before watching as the bard turned and left, silently following after Cahir. 

Cahir glanced back to the silent Jaskier as they walked back to his room.

“I would have thought that would have cheered you up,” Cahir said as they walked side by side. Jaskier gave an emotionless laugh at that.

“I know it was a warning,” Jaskier muttered. “A warning that Emhyr has someone I care for in reach and he won’t hesitate to use her to punish me.”

“Ah,” Cahir sighed in return. He could understand Jaskier’s line of thinking there. It was also something he would do, to show his prisoner what he could lose if he stepped out of line. 

He pushed opened the door to Jaskier’s room, ignoring the guards as Jaskier walked in before he followed the quiet bard, shutting the door behind them. Jaskier padded over to the bed, sitting on the edge and sighing as he pulled his boots off. 

The poet looked up, frowning, when he realised that Cahir was in the room with him, just standing by the couch and looking around. The usually confident, cool commander was looking hesitant and uncertain for a change.

“Was there something you wanted?” Jaskier asked uncertainly, thumb rubbing against his finger nervously. 

Cahir paused for a moment before he lifted his head to meet Jaskier’s gaze. “How’d you do it?”

“Do what?”

“How did you overcome everything? All of the pain you were put through, how did you not break? How did you go back to being your sassy, smart mouth self?” Cahir questioned quick fire. 

Jaskier stared, wide eyed and taken aback for a moment, mouth slightly agape, before he clenched his jaw tight, fire flashing through his blue eyes.

“Why do you want to know?” he demanded, getting to his feet and standing tall. “Trying to figure out some torturous plans with your emperor so I end fucked up for good this time?”

Cahir blinked. “What? No.”

“Then what?” Jaskier demanded. “Why should I tell you? You could use this shit against me, make sure I break more than I did last time!”

“I’m trying to find a way to help Jon!” Cahir blurted out in frustration, the words leaving his mouth before he had time to think. Jaskier stilled at that, eyes widening in shock and surprise once more.

That hadn’t been the answer he had been expecting. 

Cahir sighed and sat down heavily on the couch, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair and messing it up. Jaskier cautiously crept closer to the commander, who usually looked so well kept and put together…but was now looking dishevelled and oddly vulnerable. 

“What’s wrong with Jon?” Jaskier asked carefully as he stayed just out of reach of Cahir. 

“Your… _revelation_ about our emperor’s plans regarding Cirilla brought back some terrible memories for Jon,” Cahir answered roughly. 

“The Usurper,” Jaskier whispered, getting a surprised look but also a nod from Cahir. 

“I know the memories still haunt him, though the better days outweigh the bad, but I…I don’t know what to do, what to say when it’s one of his bad days, when the memories overwhelm him.”

Jaskier carefully and slowly sunk down into the armchair opposite Cahir, staring at him.

“How?” Cahir questioned. “How did you overcome it? What did you do when it became too much?”

“Not everyone is the same, Cahir,” Jaskier responded quietly, fingers interlaced in his lap. He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with Cahir of all people, but if it helped Jon then Jaskier would do what he could. The kind-hearted medic didn’t deserve to be alone, burdened by horrible, traumatic memories. “What worked for me might not work for Jon.”

“Just give me ideas, Jaskier, give me something that I could use to help him,” Cahir asked of him, voice breaking, which shocked the bard. “I can’t lose him. He is my oldest, most trusted friend…and we both survived the Usurper because of each other. I can’t lose him now, not to those memories.”

Jaskier gave a small nod, taking in a steeling breath as he tried to figure out what to say. 

“I…I struggled for a while,” he admitted. “Didn’t want to talk…but I had Geralt.”

Cahir was watching him intently, eyes fixed on Jaskier’s face as he listened to every word intently.

“He refused to give up on me,” Jaskier continued quietly, lifting his hand to grab the medallion hanging around his neck. “I always had him there by my side, supporting me. Sometimes it was just sitting beside me, reminding me I wasn’t alone, other times…other times when I was struggling he would just hold me, to let me know that he was there, that he would protect me and wouldn’t leave me.”

Jaskier’s voice broke slightly at the end and he coughed, trying to clear the lump in his throat as he remembered all that Geralt did for him, to reassure him that he was safe, to make sure he knew that he wasn’t alone, that Geralt was there for him. 

He missed his Witcher, so very much, that it felt like part of him was missing, like there was a hole in him, in his heart, that couldn't be filled.

“A…a friend got rid of the physical reminders, but Geralt was there to support me through all of the mental and emotional reminders, all of those struggles,” Jaskier continued, voice hoarse. “That’s what got me through it, just knowing that I had Geralt there, to be by my side when I needed him.”

Cahir looked thoughtful at that, nodding as he got to his feet. He looked to Jaskier, who was looking sad and vulnerable himself. He wasn’t sure of what to say to the bard, who he had hurt so greatly and yet who had opened up to him in order to help Jon.

There was really only one thing he could say.

“Thank you…for helping me figure out how I can help Jon.”

Jaskier didn’t look at him, instead looking at the medallion held tightly in his palm. He slowly loosened his grip upon it so he could look at the snarling wolf head engraving, wiping his thumb across it. 

Cahir stared at him for a moment longer before he turned and silently left, knowing that Jaskier wouldn’t want his help…and leaving the bard to his thoughts of his truest friend, the Witcher. 

Jaskier heard the door shut behind Cahir, but still he stared at the medallion held in his hand, heart aching as he thought of Geralt.

What he would give to be by his side again, to wake up beside him and see the sleepy vulnerable Witcher that only he got to see.

He just wanted to be with Geralt once more…to never leave his side again.

Cahir stood outside Jon’s door, taking in a breath before knocking upon it. The door opened to reveal a dishevelled and tired looking Jon. His red curls were all over the place and knotted to each other, while dark smudges stained the skin underneath his eyes, evidence of broken sleep. 

Yet the medic’s green eyes still sparkled, albeit a little less than usual, and a tired smile pulled at his lips when he saw that it was Cahir standing there.

“Cahir,” Jon greeted before he stepped back. “Come in.”

Cahir stepped inside the room, glancing about as Jon shut the door behind them. Jon walked over to stand beside him, cocking his head slightly as he stared at the commander.

“What brings you – whoa!” Jon said, voice suddenly muffled as he was pulled against Cahir’s chest, the commander wrapping his arms around him in a surprise hug. Jon blinked, shocked, but found himself leaning against Cahir, relaxing slightly in his hug.

“What’s with the surprise hug?” Jon asked, muffled as he buried his face against the top of Cahir’s shoulder. 

“I spoke to Jaskier,” Cahir told him quietly, surprising him further. “I-I didn’t know what to do to help you, Jon, when the memories become too much. Jaskier told me to just be here for you, so you know you aren’t alone and you can talk to me about anything.”

Jon wrapped his arms around Cahir, returning the hug tightly at that, speechless. He didn’t know what to say to that really.

“I-I appreciate it, Cahir,” he breathed instead.

“You are my oldest, most trusted friend, Jon,” Cahir murmured. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Jon squeezed him tighter at that, a choked noise escaping his throat. Jon slowly released him a few moments later, smiling weakly at him, before he went to sit on the couch with Cahir coming to join him a few seconds later, sitting beside him, his shoulder pressing against Jon’s.

“I was…I was just caught unawares,” Jon told him quietly. “I just need a couple of days, but thank you, i-it’s easier not being alone.”

“I’m here, Jon,” Cahir said in response. Jon just smiled at him before leaning against him tiredly, taking comfort from Cahir’s warmth. He knew Cahir would never hurt him. Cahir had been the one to tend to his wounds after the Usurper had finished with him for the night, to make sure he wouldn’t bleed out and would stay by his side throughout to night to make sure nothing happened to him if the Usurper had been in a mood to beat him around. 

“Cahir, w-what do we do if does get Cirilla?” Jon asked quietly a little while later, looking at Cahir hesitantly. “I-I spoke to the emperor about what…what I went through, how it broke me, b-but I don’t know what he’ll choose, what he’ll do to that young girl.”

“Jon,” Cahir spoke up as Jon took a ragged, worried breath, before he could start worriedly rambling again. “Do you remember what I said to you in that night in the medical tent, when we were discussing sending Jaskier to Nilfgaard?”

Jon blinked, but gave a slow, confused nod.

“What did I say, Jon?” Cahir pushed.

“That you trusted me to make the right decision,” Jon said slowly, meeting Cahir’s gaze. Cahir nodded.

“I know you don’t make any decision lightly, Jon, that you go through the consequences and you would choose the _right_ choice, the moral choice,” Cahir said quietly, just for Jon to hear, not wanting to be overheard by the wrong people. “I trust any decision you make because I know you didn’t just let your heart or your fears lead you, that you considered everything and would make the best choice to protect the health and wellbeing for those you care for, for Nilfgaard.”

“And if that choice meant taking Jaskier and Cirilla and getting them out?” Jon asked hypothetically, quiet enough just for Cahir to hear. 

“Then I would support you, Jon,” Cahir said softly. He knew it was treason, but there was no one he trusted more than Jon. Jon didn’t make choices for politics or power, there was no ulterior motive to his actions, he just wanted the best for everyone…and if he came to the decision to run, to take Jaskier and Cirilla with him, then Cahir would know that that was the only option for Jon to save his patients, to protect them and save their lives and mental and emotional wellbeing. “I would stand by you. I would run _with_ you.”

Jon stared up at him in amazement before a soft smile broke out across his face, green eyes softening and filling with its normal, sparkling light. He leaned his head against Cahir’s shoulder as Cahir wrapped his arm around him.

“Thank you, Cahir.”

“I trust you, Jon. I have you. No matter what.”

Emhyr lifted his head as the door to his office opened, pulling his attention away from the correspondence and reports from spies across the Continent. He leaned back once he saw who swept through the door and into his office, bowing low once they reached his desk.

“Ah, Fringilla,” Emhyr greeted the sorceress. “What news do you have for me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it's taken a bit longer than usual, but I was ask to stay on for a couple more weeks at this relief job I'm doing...and while I absolutely love the kids I'm working with, they leave me absolutely exhausted with no energy to write in the evenings and I didn't want to give you a tired, rushed chapter either...
> 
> Next chapter might also take a little bit longer as I've got another week or so of work :)
> 
> ...and, yes, Cahir couldn't get over the fact that Jaskier was singing to Buttercup :P
> 
> Thanks for all the comments, they are always the highlight of my day! :D
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	18. Scout

Fringilla stood tall, back straight, across the desk from the emperor, eyes fixed upon him. Emhyr stared back, fingertips pressed together as he leaned forward slightly upon his desk, eager to hear the news which Fringilla had brought.

“I’ve checked in on the border garrisons,” Fringilla began. “Redania has soldiers stationed across the Pontar at all crossing points and at different points across the river. It is currently impossible to get a full army across into Redania, though, as you know, it is possible to sneak small groups and spies across – but any groups bigger than five to ten people and at frequent intervals will surely raise alarms.”

“Mm,” Emhyr sighed. “So small groups at infrequent intervals then. Best not to arouse Radovid’s suspicions and get him to reinforce the Pontar banks even more. What other news do you have?”

“As I looked in upon the garrisons, I found that quite a few of them – especially about the border near the Pontar River – have curious tales,” Fringilla continued.

“How curious?”

“Reports of glowing golden eyes watching them from tree lines, of hearing footsteps and seeing mysterious shadows creeping about the camp…and the occasional dead guard found on the outskirts of the camp,” Fringilla said, giving a small, disgusted sniff. Emhyr just smirked, leaning back in his chair smugly.

“Ah, so the Witcher is looking for his bard,” he mused with a smirk. 

Fringilla paused for a moment before giving a small shake of her head. “I do not believe it is just him.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Emhyr.

“Some of the reports I collected of the events, well, a few of them coincided on the same night or it occurred in one camp one night and then at another camp which is situated a couple of days travel away, yet another instance happens the night after the other attack,” Fringilla explained. “I believe there is more than one Witcher out there searching for the bard.”

Emhyr frowned suddenly at that. “There has been no news or rumours of Geralt travelling across the Continent, has there?”

“No,” Fringilla muttered bitterly. She had tried to find the Witcher, to find any trace of him and Cirilla, yet there had been nothing. Usually there was whispers or talks of where a Witcher was or had been, but there was nothing of the White Wolf. “There have been no whispers or discussions about the White Wolf recently…not since the spies reported in on his and the bard’s location.”

“So there are other Witchers,” Emhyr said thoughtfully, intrigued by this fact. “Ones who are helping Geralt to track down his bard. I knew there were more out there – not many of course – but I didn’t realise that they would work together. Do we know if there are any more surviving Witchers from the school that Geralt was trained at?”

“I am not certain,” Fringilla admitted. “There isn’t any information readily available about the Witchers…and certainly not ones naming which surviving Witcher belongs to which school.”

Emhyr just remained silent, dark eyes calculating and thoughtful.

“My Majesty,” Fringilla said carefully a few moments later. “Might I ask what you plan to do with the bard? I mean, he’s painful and annoying…what use could he be to us besides blackmail?”

“I plan to use him as my Royal Bard,” Emhyr said, smirking ever so slightly when he saw Fringilla’s nose screw up in disgust, though she wisely didn’t voice it. “He will also be useful once I get Cirilla and she is brought here.”

“How?” Fringilla asked, unable to control herself. 

“Jaskier knows her,” Emhyr explained simply, not wanting Fringilla to know of his suspicions that Jaskier and Cirilla were bound together by fate, much like Cirilla and Geralt. “From what I’ve heard, she seems to think of him very highly and cares for him, much like a big brother…or father figure,” he added quietly, a weird pang in his heart with those words. “He will be useful in keeping her, to get her settled into her new life in Nilfgaard.”

Fringilla looked unconvinced but didn’t say anything, knowing that even she was not immune from punishment, or death, for questioning her Emperor’s plans and disrespecting him. 

“Perhaps these Witchers who are sneaking about our garrisons and conducting their own reconnaissance will lead us to Cirilla,” Emhyr mused. 

“What if they don’t even know about Cirilla?” Fringilla countered wisely. “All they may know is that they are to search for the bard. They may not know the whole story.”

“Mmm, that is true,” Emhyr agreed with a sigh. “But I believe that the ones closest to Geralt, the ones from his school perhaps, will know more. We just need to find out which ones they are and to track them down.”

“And how will we discover that?”

Emhyr paused for a moment, eyes narrowing with calculation before he smirked, triumphant. “Send for the assassin.” 

Lambert scowled as he stared out over the camp, lying in the valley below. He had been searching for weeks, trying to find the smallest trace of Jaskier – whether it was the sound of his loud, musical voice or a whiff of his flowery, soft scent…yet he had found nothing. Not a single trace or whisper of the bard. 

A cold wind blew across the cliff top he was lying upon, ruffling his hair and souring his mood further. He glanced up at the dark, roiling clouds and huffed out a sigh before he turned his gaze back to the camp.

Winter was fast approaching and he would need to head back to Kaer Morhen soon in order to beat the weather…yet he didn’t want to return empty handed, to see Geralt’s crushed expression when he realised that Jaskier was still out there somewhere. 

Despite Witchers usually excelling at concealing their emotions – which was where the rumour of Witchers having no emotion came from – they did have tells. Geralt’s eyes were usually the thing that gave away what he was feeling to those who knew him well. Lambert didn’t want to see the hope crushed in Geralt’s expressive golden eyes, to see the disappointment and despair. 

He glanced to the side, pulled from his thoughts, at the sound of rocks shifting. He shook his head and looked back to the camp as the one beside huffed and grunted as they settled down.

“Comfortable, Aiden?” Lambert asked, glancing back to his dearest friend and companion. Aiden rolled his golden eyes as he got more comfortable beside Lambert, stretched out on his stomach and looking very feline like, as he glanced down at the camp below. 

Lambert turned his head slightly to keep his gaze on Aiden. Aiden’s slightly curly, shoulder length black hair hung around his face, partially concealing his sharp jaw line and olive skin. Aiden’s golden eyes glanced at him, filled with warmth, before he looked back to the camp, taking in the roving guards. 

Lambert looked back to the guards as well, feeling a bit more at ease with Aiden’s warmth and comforting weight pressing against his side. The Cat Witcher hadn’t left his side since they had met up and Lambert had asked for his help. Aiden had even gone with him to find the other Cat Witchers and their caravan and had convinced them to help Lambert, Geralt and the Wolf Witchers, to find their missing bard. 

After they had convinced the Cat Witchers, who had instantly dispatched a number of their own to find Jaskier – as even the Cats knew how much Jaskier’s songs had helped them, even the School known as paid assassins amongst the Witchers – Aiden had insisted on joining him to find Jaskier. 

He had been by his side ever since, being there to comfort him, reassure him and distract him when the anger, annoyance and frustration got too much for him. He was the one who dragged Lambert into a spar when all he saw was red and he wanted to beat the living shit out of the Nilfgaardians to get them to talk, to just tell him where Jaskier was being held. 

“So,” Aiden murmured, sharp eyes fixed upon the camp. “I see the usual rotating guards, not much different from the other camps we went to scout,” Aiden said, looking to Lambert with a sharp grin. “Shall we go play?”

Lambert rolled his eyes with a smirk but gave a short nod as he cast his gaze back to the camp, seeing the usual guards. 

He really hoped that Jaskier was down there.

With a grunt, Lambert pushed himself up to his feet with Aiden quickly leaping to his feet beside him. Aiden brushed down his light weight, dark blue, leather armour – which was perfect for his lean build and his acrobatic style of fighting – before looking to Lambert.

“Ready?”

Lambert nodded. “Let’s go.”

They left their horses tied to trees out of sight on top of the cliff face before they slipped and skidded down the slope as quietly as possible, keeping to the shadows that the setting sun was casting. 

They silently crept over to an outcropping of bushes just outside of the camp, crouching down low behind them as they stared at the camp, watching as a few soldiers milled about, lighting the torches set around the camp.

“Can you get his scent?” Aiden asked quietly as his sharp gaze remained fixed on the few guards, who seemed more interested in the food being cooked upon the fire than on their duties. Lambert flared his nostrils, trying to catch the slightest trace of Jaskier’s unique scent. 

He grunted and shook his head, irked. “All I smell is horses and unwashed soldiers,” he muttered darkly. 

“Well, maybe his scent is masked by the Nilfgaardian stink,” Aiden suggested, trying to keep Lambert positive. Lambert nodded curtly.

“I’ll have to get closer,” he said. “Keep an eye out.”

“Got it,” Aiden nodded. “Be careful.”

“Always.”

“Pssh, as if,” Aiden muttered under his breath, smirking. “Saved your ass too many times for me to believe ya.”

“Shut it, Cat,” Lambert breathed with a twisted grin before he darted away into the camp, keeping hidden within the shadows. He silently made his way through camp, pausing here and there to listen for Jaskier’s musical, sassy voice or trying to catch a whiff of his unique scent through the tents. 

He bared his teeth in frustration as he got further through the camp and found no trace of their bard. There was no trace of his scent, not a whisper of his voice, nor were any of the soldiers discussing a prisoner. 

Lambert’s hands shook with repressed fury as he slowly and carefully made his way back out of the camp, furious that this was just another dead end. He paused by the last row of tents, hearing footsteps approaching. He could just see Aiden peering over the bushes at him before the Cat Witcher held up a single finger for him to see.

A single soldier then. 

Lambert silently pulled out a dagger, listening to the approaching footsteps getting louder, the grass crunching under the heavy boot. Once the footsteps got close enough, Lambert lunged out, grabbing the surprised soldier and yanking him back behind the tent, immediately holding the dagger against the soldier’s throat. 

“Yell and I’ll slit your throat,” Lambert snarled quietly at him as not to be overheard. The soldier just stared at him wide-eyed. He was a younger one, cheeks still slightly rounded with baby fat. He gave a small nod, gulping fearfully, yet he made no move to yell out or fight against Lambert, fully aware of the dagger tip pressed against his throat.

“Smart move,” Lambert told him. “Just tell me one thing and I’ll let you go.”

The young soldier gave the smallest of nods, still staring at Lambert’s gold eyes and trembling.

“Do you know of a bard being held prisoner?” Lambert asked him quietly. “It could be by any Nilfgaardian garrison. Have you heard anything?”

“N-No,” the soldier whispered, voice shaking. “B-But I-I’m just new. T-They don’t tell me anything…b-but I haven’t heard any of the c-captains talking about it.”

Lambert stared down at him, eyes narrowed, trying to work out if the boy was lying. All he could smell was the overwhelming sour scent of fear emanating from. He didn’t believe the boy was lying. 

“I wouldn’t tell any of your superiors about this,” Lambert muttered to him, giving a sharp grin. “They’ll be furious that you didn’t try to fight me or yell out. Don’t want a good, young boy like you to get punished by fools for doing the smart thing.”

The boy paled at the mere thought of being punished by his commanding officers, before he nodded frantically as Lambert slowly took the dagger away. 

“Smart kid,” Lambert said as he sheathed the dagger, glancing around as he listened for any more approaching soldiers. “Don’t let those bastards get you killed.”

The kid just blinked, startled by that, before Lambert darted back off away from the camp with Aiden joining him as they headed back to their horses. 

Aiden kept glancing at the broody Wolf as they rode towards their next camp site, somewhere away from the Nilfgaardian camp. Lambert was silent all through them setting the camp up, even as he got the fire going. 

Lambert sat down heavily on the ground next to the fire, grumpily staring into the flames and tearing into the rabbit - which Aiden had caught and cooked – moodily. 

Aiden settled down to sit beside, eating his rabbit a bit more slowly, and refined, compared to his wolf friend. 

Lambert threw the bones into the fire once he was done, huffing slightly under his breath as he glared at the fire. He sighed, giving a low chuckle under his breath, as Aiden shuffled closer to his side, wrapping his arms around Lambert’s broader bulk, nuzzling his face against Lambert’s neck. Lambert wrapped an arm around Aiden’s lean mid-section, sighing once more as he found his body relaxing in Aiden’s hold. 

“What’s wrong?” Aiden mumbled against Lambert’s neck as he purred softly, knowing the sound comforted Lambert. It was a weird side effect from one of their mutations…but it had proved handy every now and again. 

“Winter is approaching faster this year,” Lambert muttered darkly. “I just…I wanted to find Jaskier before I went back to Kaer Morhen. I don’t want to see Geralt’s eyes when he realises that Jaskier isn’t there.”

“Lamb,” Aiden sighed against his neck.

“You don’t know Geralt, Kitten,” Lambert murmured. “He expresses everything through his eyes and I can’t bear to see the crushing despair in his eyes when he realises that this search has been a fucking bust.”

“You don’t know that yet,” Aiden pointed out. “Coen or one of the Griffins could have found him.”

“I just wish we could have searched more but if we want to get to our safe places before the snow falls, we need to start heading there now,” Lambert said bitterly before he shook his head and scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “Fuck! Why couldn’t we find him?!”

“Because Nilfgaard are crafty fuckers,” Aiden said simply as he held Lambert tighter, rubbing his nose against the soft skin of Lambert’s neck. 

“I just…fuck, I don’t want to see Geralt’s eyes,” Lambert whispered again. “He…he really fucking loves that bard, you know? He was always a quiet, stubborn bastard, but Jaskier opened up a different side to him. Jaskier made Geralt more open, like he was smiling or laughing more when he was back at Kaer Morhen. He just seemed more relaxed and taken care of when he came back. Gotta admit, I was jealous of the pretty boy for _years_ ,” Lambert laughed slightly. “Til I met you of course.”

“Of course,” Aiden agreed with a small smile, purring a bit louder at that. “But Geralt loves Jaskier, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Lambert sighed heavily. “Don't think he actually realises it yet, the dense fuck, but he really does love Jaskier…and Jaskier loves that stubborn, grumpy bastard just as much in return.”

Aiden nodded, slowly tracing circles with his nails against Lambert’s side, feeling him shiver with each circle. 

“Lamb?” he questioned a few moments later, feeling Lambert leaning against more heavily now, the wolf all relaxed and loose. 

“Mm?”

“What…what if I came with you to Kaer Morhen this year?” he asked quietly. “That way I’ll be there, by your side, and we can try to distract and reassure Geralt, I guess. We can plan where we’ll search in the spring, make sure he – and you and Eskel and Vesemir – doesn’t give up hope that we’ll find Jaskier.”

Lambert pulled back slightly so he could meet Aiden’s gaze, his eyes wide with surprise. “Y-You’d do that?”

“For you?” Aiden smiled. “Anything, Lamb.” 

Lambert grinned at that, squeezing Aiden closer as he buried his nose into Aiden’s soft curly hair. 

“I’d love it,” Lambert told him. 

“Do ya think Vesemir would be all right with it?” Aiden asked carefully.

“Yeah, I think so,” Lambert reassured him. “You’ve been helping me to search for Jaskier and you persuaded the Cats to help too…and Vesemir has, well, mellowed a bit since Geralt brought Ciri home.”

“I look forward to meeting the mischievous little princess and teaching her all of the Cat moves,” Aiden laughed, “and meeting your brothers of course.”

“If only Jaskier was there,” Lambert breathed against Aiden’s head. “You’d love him. Full of sass and mischief on the good days.”

“We’ll find him, Lamb,” Aiden reassured him. “We’ll find him…and I look forward to meeting him, to meeting the bard who helped change people’s opinions on Witchers for the better…even for us Cats.”

“I know, Kitten,” Lambert sighed against his hair, relaxing further as Aiden reached up to stroke the scar running over Lambert’s eye. “Just hate fucking Nilfgaard so much.”

“Why'd you leave the soldier alive then?" Aiden questioned curiously.

"Cause he was young and stupid. Probably just some peasant kid that joined the army to get fed....or he was conscripted," Lambert said quietly. "Kid was smart though. If he was one of the true, loyal Nilfgaardian shits, he would've yelled the moment he saw me, knife against his throat or not. He's just trying to survive. I'll definitely kill the fuckers who have Jaskier...all of them."

"We'll burn the camp down to the ground too, send a message to Nilfgaard,” Aiden grinned as he pulled back slightly to meet Lambert’s gaze. The Wolf Witcher stared back, meeting Aiden’s warm golden eyes, eyes tracing the scar across the bridge of the Cat’s nose, starting and ending on his cheeks. “You know us Cats love to burn shit down.”

Lambert snorted at that, lips twisting into a grin. “Then in the Spring, we find Jaskier…and then we burn Nilfgaard down for taking one of our own.”

Aiden nodded, curling back up against Lambert’s side and purring lowly. Lambert kept his arm wrapped around Aiden’s lean middle as they sat by the fire, keeping away the cold chill of the night. 

“To Kaer Morhen then,” Lambert sighed as he rested his head against Aiden’s.

It was time to head home…without Jaskier.

This Winter was going to be horrible without the bright, kind hearted bard…but hopefully Aiden would make it a bit easier, to help keep Geralt distracted from maudlin and morose thoughts about what Jaskier could be going through.

He only hoped that Coen had good news…or that they arrived back to find Jaskier already there, having been found by one of the others or one of the mages.

Jaskier sat across from Emhyr, trying not to squirm under the emperor’s intense stare. He had been summoned to the emperor’s office, with Mererid coming to get him, though looking displeased that he didn’t have the time to get Jaskier bathed nor dressed in one of the tailored outfits. 

So now he was here, having being seated before his guards hurried off with Mererid close behind. 

Emhyr was yet to say a word, instead just leaning back in his chair and watching him…seemingly waiting for something. 

Jaskier’s heart raced in his chest as his mind turned over every possible scenario, hiking his anxiety up. Could they have found Ciri? Could they have decided to capture Geralt? Did they find Yennefer or Lambert or Eskel? 

Jaskier reached up to grab the medallion, trying to calm his racing heart, blood pounding in his ears as his anxiety got the best of him and the worst scenarios continued to dart through his mind, one after the other. 

He startled at a loud knock at the door, which made him jump slightly in his seat. Emhyr just smirked before calling for the knocker to enter. Jaskier glanced over his shoulder before scowling heavy once he saw who was striding through.

“Jaskier, I believe you already know Fringilla,” Emhyr stated, amused, as Jaskier slumped slightly in his seat petulantly, arms folding across his chest as he scowled at the mage as she came to stand beside him – though thankfully a small distance away. 

“Unfortunately,” Jaskier returned snippily, shooting a glare at the mage, who returned it distastefully. Emhyr just chuckled lowly, quite amused by this. He looked to Fringilla, who was still glaring at the bard.

“Where is he?” he asked her.

“He will be here shortly, Your Majesty,” she responded. “I left him to stable his horse.”

Emhyr nodded, looking back to Jaskier, who was still glaring at Fringilla and pouting slightly, looking very childlike. He tilted his head slightly as he regarded the bard. He wondered what drew Ciri to him, how he and Ciri interacted with each other. Was it all laughs and music? Did Ciri go to him when she had nightmares, when she needed comfort? Did Jaskier hold her close and stroke her hair to soothe her or did he tell her stories and sing her to sleep, sitting by her side as she fell to sleep?

He wanted to know. He wanted to see it for himself…and he would, as soon as they found Cirilla and brought her home. 

Emhyr pushed those thoughts aside for later as there was another curt knock at the door before Mererid opened it and stepped inside.

“He is here, your Excellence,” he announced as he bowed low.

“Send him in,” Emhyr ordered. Mererid bowed low once again before stepping outside.

“Mystery visitor?” Jaskier quipped, looking to Emhyr. Emhyr just hummed, smirking, but looking past Jaskier as the door opened once again to reveal his visitor, his assassin.

Jaskier turned to look over his shoulder, startling at the sight of a very large, mountain of a man. He was about the same height as Geralt, perhaps slightly taller, yet he was much larger. His arms, which were bare from the shoulders down, had biceps the size of small boulders and his bald head was scarred. The man was wearing some sort of brown leather armour over a dark brown shirt, though no sleeves on either. A medallion hung on his chest, a twisted viper hanging from a chain.

The man approached the emperor, glancing at Jaskier. Jaskier froze at the sight of the familiar golden eyes before the man, the **Witcher** , looked away from him and towards Emhyr.

“You called for me?” the man asked, voice low and gravelly. Emhyr gave a curt nod.

“I did,” he said slowly, before smirking, “but before we go on, I don’t believe you two have met, have you?”

The Witcher looked back to Jaskier, golden eyes travelling down the lean bard as though trying to determine whether or not he was a threat or a concern. Apparently he wasn’t because the Witcher looked back to the emperor, looking unamused. Jaskier's grip just tightened on Geralt's medallion held tightly in his grasp.

“I don’t meet many people,” the Witcher said. “Hazards of the job.”

“Mmhmm,” Emhyr hummed, uncaring. “This is Jaskier…otherwise known as the ‘Witcher’s Bard’ or the White Wolf’s Bard. He is well known for his songs painting Witchers in a positive light.”

The Witcher turned back to face Jaskier again, frowning at him. Jaskier continued to stare at the large, hulking Witcher. He didn’t know what was going on here. He didn’t know why a Witcher would be here, in front of the Nilfgaardian Emperor.

Vesemir did tell him that not all schools were like the Wolf school, that they all had different values, but still Jaskier didn’t know…didn’t want to know why. His stomach twisted uncomfortably as pessimistic thoughts ran through his head, fear clutching at his heart.

Who was this man? Why was he here?

“Jaskier, I’m sure you’ve realised by now, but this man is a Witcher,” Emhyr continued on, looking smug. “This is Letho of Gulet, Witcher of the Viper School…and also my assassin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one down!!  
> Still doing cover work...I'm loving it, but am absolutely exhausted hahaha
> 
> Annnd here's Letho, who's finally going to get some story lines moving ;) ...and Aiden because I love how Lambert talks about him in the game, so had to bring him in here...alive and well of course...and both together haha
> 
> Thanks to all those who commented! I absolutely love and adore each and every comment
> 
> Let me know what you think please!!


	19. Letho of Gulet

Jaskier couldn’t stop his eyes widening, his head snapping to the side as he stared at the very large Witcher in disbelief. Letho just remained emotionless, staring at Emhyr. 

“If we’re discussing this any further, I don’t want the mage here,” Letho just grunted in response, glaring at Fringilla.

“You don’t get to make demands here,” Emhyr snapped in response, eyes flashing angrily.

Letho rolled a shoulder in a small shrug. “Don’t trust them,” he said simply. “You want my services again, she doesn’t remain in here. It’s because of her kind that Witchers are almost extinct.”

Emhyr scowled at that, glancing at Fringilla, who was also silently seething.

“Leave us,” Emhyr ordered, waving his hand dismissively.

“Your Majesty!”

“Do not defy me, Fringilla,” Emhyr warned darkly. 

“But what if he tries to harm you, to kill you as he did Foltest?” Fringilla asked, glaring at the Witcher, who just crossed his large arms over his broad chest and stared back at her. 

“He would not dare,” Emhyr said simply, glancing at the Witcher. “He knows he would be dead before he managed to get out of the Royal Quarter…and then the rest of his school would be hunted down and killed because of it.”

Letho glared but nodded curtly in agreement at that, jaw clenching. Jaskier just stared between the two of them, hand grasping tightly onto Geralt’s medallion as his heart raced in his chest. 

He couldn’t believe that this was the Witcher who killed Foltest, for Nilfgaard of all people. Jaskier’s heart plummeted when the realisation came across him that this Witcher could have also murdered young Adda, who Geralt had saved almost at the cost of his own life. 

Fringilla finally nodded stiffly before sweeping from the room, practically oozing displeasure. She knew she couldn’t argue against Emhyr, against her emperor, to show disrespect.  
Letho waited until the door closed before he turned back to Emhyr. 

“Why did you summon me?” he asked bluntly, as only a Witcher could do to royalty. Emhyr scowled before he smoothed his expression back into a neutral one. 

“I require your assistance…one that only a Witcher could give,” Emhyr stated. Letho nodded, glancing curiously at Jaskier.

“And him?”

“That will become clear shortly,” Emhyr said with a smirk. “Jaskier, release what is in your hand.”

Jaskier froze for a moment, watching as Emhyr’s eyes narrowed, before he swallowed deeply and slowly unclenched his hand off of the medallion, dropping it into his lap instead. Letho’s gaze immediately dropped to the medallion, the Witcher’s eyes narrowing.

“That’s a School of the Wolf medallion,” Letho stated, golden eyes snapping up to meet Jaskier’s gaze. “Where did you get that?”

“When they captured me,” Jaskier said quietly, not wanting to anger this very large Witcher. “They took it from Geralt…I-I promised not to try anything foolish if they would let me have it.”

Letho stiffened suddenly, turning back to face Emhyr. “That concoction you wanted from me, that was to take Geralt down, wasn’t it?” 

“I told you that I wanted to take down a Witcher,” Emhyr drawled. 

“Thought that was so you could control me,” Letho muttered bitterly. “Thought you would’ve gone the easier option and just killed me…or Geralt.”

“Geralt is still useful…as are you,” Emhyr replied simply. “Which is why I needed that concoction. However that information isn’t important for now. Geralt is alive, but he has hidden himself. He has not been seen since we captured his bard.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Letho shrugged again. “That concoction was used to weaken Witchers, in order to control and take down the ones who went feral. It would’ve left him weakened for weeks.”

Jaskier was shaking in disbelief at what he was hearing. Vesemir’s fears had been correct, a fellow Witcher had betrayed them, given their enemy a way to hurt them and take them down. 

“Mm,” Emhyr hummed. “Yes, however, even though he has hidden himself, there are other Witchers out there who have been searching for Jaskier. I believe they are ones from his school.”

Letho hummed thoughtfully, glancing at Jaskier, who shook his head, eyes wide and pleading as he stared at the large Witcher, silently pleading with him not to tell Emhyr about the surviving Wolf Witchers.

“There aren’t many of them left,” Letho said slowly, still staring at Jaskier. “Most were killed in the Sacking. Last I heard there were about 10 of them still alive, but that number has probably gone down these last two decades or so. Haven’t heard a few of their names talked about in many years.”

“Who would Geralt turn to?” Emhyr pressed. 

“No!” Jaskier cried out, unable to control himself anymore. “They’re your brothers! There aren’t many of you left! You would betray them?! Vesemir said that Cats were the ones who weren’t to be trusted, not the Vipers!”

“Ah,” Letho said, intrigued, golden eyes burning with curiousity. “You’ve met Vesemir. How curious.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened at that, suddenly realising what he had just blurted out. He sunk down in his seat, horrified and dismayed by his running mouth. 

“Who is Vesemir?” Emhyr demanded to know.

“Vesemir is the oldest surviving Wolf,” Letho explained, eyes still fixed on the distressed Jaskier, a bit surprised by the scent of his distress. He had never known a human to care about the safety of Witchers so deeply before. “He was one of the instructors of the Wolf school, only one to actually survive the sacking who wasn’t on the Path at the time.”

“And why would it be curious that Jaskier has met him?”

“Because Vesemir very rarely leaves Kaer Morhen, the keep of the Wolf Witchers, meaning Jaskier would have been taken there,” Letho explained, frowning slightly at the low keen of distress that Jaskier let out. “Vesemir, Eskel and Lambert are probably the ones Geralt would turn to for help – since they’re the only names I really hear these days from their school. Pretty sure Eskel is the only surviving age mate that Geralt has too.”

“Stop,” Jaskier pleaded brokenly, tears forming in his eyes and blurring his vision.

“Where would I find them?”

Letho shook his head. “Too late to find them now,” he said. “If they were out on the Path, they’re probably on their way back to Kaer Morhen for the Winter. You won’t see them until Spring.”

Emhyr scowled at that, leaning back in his seat.

“Where is Kaer Morhen?” Emhyr demanded to know. “Can an army access it?”

Letho tilted his head as he looked to Emhyr. “Why do you want to know?”

“They have something of mine that I want back,” Emhyr snarled in response. “Now answer my question.”

“You can’t get into Kaer Morhen,” Letho told him. “For one, it’s hidden deep in Kaedwen, deep in the Blue Mountains. Only Witchers know how to find it and only Witchers know how to traverse the trail without being killed.”

“What if I use mages to portal in?”

“That won’t work either,” Letho said, which made Jaskier freeze. That wasn’t true. Yennefer, Tissaia, Sabrina and Triss portalled in and out all the time. The only reason they didn’t the first time was so Vesemir didn’t kill them straight away. 

“Why?” Emhyr demanded.

“After the Sacking, a few mages who were friends of Vesemir’s came after they heard the news,” Letho explained. “They put up some pretty damn strong enchantments around Kaer Morhen. Anyone who has ill intentions towards Kaer Morhen, or the Witchers within it, will not be able to cross through the magical barrier to even access the trail.”

Emhyr scowled heavily at that, and it took Jaskier everything not to react, his heart racing in his chest as an errant tear ran down his cheek.

Letho had just _lied_ to the Emperor of Nilfgaard. 

There were no such enchantments around Kaer Morhen. Tissaia had made it so Vesemir was alerted by anyone coming up the Trail, but there was no such enchantment that Letho was speaking of. 

He was _lying_ to protect them! 

“Could you get us through?”

“Not a chance,” Letho answered. “Vesemir is the only one who can allow people through the enchantment, which is why we all have to message him in advance if other Witchers from other schools want to spend Winter there.”

“And if he’s killed?” Emhyr questioned. Jaskier’s head whipped around to stare at him, eyes wide and angry at even the mere suggestion that someone killed the sweet, old mentor…the one who always discussed books with Jaskier and taught him how to make the best stew, the one who was a father to Geralt, Eskel and even the grumpy Lambert (who would deny it out loud). 

“Then it would go on to Geralt or Eskel or Lambert or whichever Wolf is left,” Letho said with another shrug. “Vesemir was thorough.” 

Jaskier just stared at Letho, still in disbelief – though he was careful not to show it. If Emhyr saw the slightest shock on Jaskier’s face then he would know that Letho was lying and would attack Kaer Morhen.

Jaskier couldn’t allow that to happen.

Kaer Morhen with Vesemir, with Lambert, Eskel, Ciri and Yennefer was home.

Geralt would be there…and Geralt was his home. 

Emhyr was scowling heavily, eyes flashing angrily. His one plan to find Cirilla had failed.

He knew where she was now, that Geralt would have taken her to the one safe haven that he had as a Witcher…but she was still out of reach as always. 

Though he still wouldn’t accept defeat. Once Spring came, he would hunt down Geralt’s fellow Witchers; Lambert and Eskel. He would have them captured and brought before him, giving Geralt no choice but to hand Cirilla over. 

Geralt may be confident that he could get his bard back with his fellow Witchers, but without them he had no hope. He would have no choice but to comply with Emhyr’s demands, especially if he wanted to keep his fellow Witchers alive. 

Jaskier was one that Emhyr would keep alive, he had purpose and would be useful in helping Cirilla settle into her new life…but Emhyr didn’t have a use for two Witchers. He already had Letho as his assassin and he doubted that the two Wolf Witchers would debase themselves in such a way if they were anything like Geralt. 

Emhyr looked back to Letho, who was staring at Jaskier, frowning slightly.

The Witcher had turned out to be useless. Sure, he killed Foltest and revealed the location of where Cirilla possibly was…but he truly had given him _nothing_. There was no way Cirilla could be retrieved from the Witcher’s enchanted keep…and he doubted that he could get Letho to retrieve her for him.

He needed to reconsider the Witcher’s usefulness. 

“Get out,” he ordered both Letho and Jaskier. He needed to think, to plan, to consider all of his options.

Letho now knew about Jaskier, knew that Emhyr was searching for something at Kaer Morhen…and Emhyr needed to weigh up if Letho was still useful enough to be kept alive, knowing all of that information. 

Jaskier stood up, quickly leaving the room after bowing quickly. Letho just turned to look at Emhyr, suspicion within those golden eyes.

“That’s it?” he questioned cautiously. 

“I just needed information, to get the bard to talk, to let something slip, which you made him do…now I’m done…for now,” Emhyr snapped at him. “Stay close. I may have another job for you later.”

Letho nodded, inclining his head before he turned and left – without bowing of course. 

Emhyr frowned as he leaned forward, resting his elbows upon the desk. There was a lot to consider.

Jaskier hurried back to his room, shutting the door behind him before letting out a shaky breath. He glanced at his trembling hands before he walked to the couch on shaky legs, barely able to stand. He slumped down upon the couch and buried his head in his hands.

He still couldn’t believe what just happened. 

First there was a Witcher, who apparently worked for Nilfgaard and murdered Foltest, who told Emhyr about Lambert and Eskel and Vesemir…yet he had lied to the Emperor of Nilfgaard to protect every Witcher at Kaer Morhen at the same time. 

Jaskier’s thoughts and emotions were a mess as he tried to work out _why_ Letho did all that he did. Why did he work for Nilfgaard? Why did he kill Foltest? Why did he give Emhyr the recipe to the concoction that hurt Geralt? Why did he **lie** about Kaer Morhen after he told Emhyr about it?

Hope and fear tore through Jaskier, heart racing and stomach twisting. He didn’t know what to make of Letho. He didn’t know whether to trust him…or fear him. 

He ran a shaking hand through his hair, messing it up, before he reached down for medallion, holding it so he could look down upon the wolf engraving.

“You’d know what to do, Geralt,” he whispered to it as he ran his thumb across it. “You would know what to do, whether to trust him o-or to get away from him. You always know what to do.” 

Jaskier shook his head, swallowing deeply as his breath caught in his throat.

“Fuck, I miss you,” he breathed, giving a choked sob. Jaskier jumped slightly as the door opened, catching him by surprise. His blue eyes widened in shock as he watched Letho slip in, closing the door quietly behind him. 

“W-What are you doing here?” Jaskier stammered, leaping to his feet as Letho moved silently towards him – which was surprising for a man his size. 

“I’ve Axiied the guards so that should give us some time to talk,” Letho said simply as he stopped by the couch, folding his boulder like arms across his chest. “You wear a Witcher’s medallion.”

Jaskier immediately grabbed Geralt’s medallion, staring at Letho with wide eyes. “I-It’s Geralt’s,” he explained. “I-I couldn’t let them have it.”

Letho cocked his head slightly to the side as he regarded the bard. “You’re the bard that follows him around, that sings of the White Wolf and of Witchers.”

“Y-Yeah,” Jaskier swallowed, still uncertain of this Viper Witcher. Letho just hummed slightly, still staring at him. 

“How’d you end up here then?” he drawled, voice low and gravelly. 

Anger flashed through Jaskier and he clenched his fists by his side. “They want something from Geralt…and you gave them the means to weaken him, to capture me.”

“It was either give them that or they’d try and make some sort of poison concoction that would kill him,” Letho countered. “Besides, thought they were gonna use it on me.”

Jaskier just stared at him, mouth opened in shock. Letho frowned as he stared back, looking over the tired, emotional bard.

“They’re using as blackmail, aren’t they?” Letho asked. Jaskier gave a small nod.

“They want something…someone from him and they’re trying to use me to get them,” Jaskier said quietly.

“The one they’re hiding at Kaer Morhen,” Letho deduced. “The one the emperor is so desperate to find. Who are they?”

Jaskier stiffened at that, hesitating. “Tell me one thing first,” he countered. “Why did you lie?”

Letho settled himself to sit down on the couch, resting his elbows against his knees as he frowned. 

“First thing you should know, don’t know if Vesemir told you…don’t even know if the old Wolf knows of this yet,” Letho started roughly. “The Viper’s keep, much like Kaer Morhen, was attacked and destroyed…by the Usurper. We were forced to scatter, unable to enter any large city, in order to survive. It was like this with all of us scattered and barely managing to survive for years until I was found by Nilfgaardian soldiers, envoys to the new emperor and was offered a deal.”

“Which was you helping Nilfgaard and assassinating kings,” Jaskier sniped.

“Mm,” Letho grunted, “in return my fellow school mates would be safe and we would be able to rebuild the School of the Viper. I couldn’t refuse. What’s a few kings and an Empire in exchange for the safety of my brothers?” 

Jaskier sunk down to sit in the armchair at that. He couldn’t argue against that. He knew that Geralt would die rather than to lose his brothers. 

“We Witchers are few in number, even across all of the Schools…and Kaer Morhen is practically the one keep that is still standing, that Vesemir still has a safe haven for all Witchers. I couldn’t let that be destroyed, to let the few Witchers we have left be killed for some power hungry emperor,” Letho said, shaking his head. 

Jaskier nodded slowly at that. “You’ve been there then?”

“No, not yet,” Letho laughed roughly, “but all Witchers know that Vesemir will open the doors to you, as long as you respect the keep and you don’t get into any fights.”

Jaskier looked down at his hands, which were entwined in his lap. “One last question.”

“As long as you tell me what the emperor seeks so desperately,” Letho said.

“Depends on how you answer the question,” Jaskier returned cryptically. Letho grinned at that and nodded. Jaskier took in a shaky breath, steeling himself. “You killed Foltest…but what did you do to Adda?”

“Foltest’s daughter,” Letho rumbled. “Why do you care?”

“Geralt was the one who broke her curse,” Jaskier said firmly, glaring at him. “He almost _died_ saving her while others would have just killed her.”

Letho stared at him before giving a small nod. “So I see,” he drawled. “Well, I was only hired to kill Foltest and any guard who tried to stop me. I had to clear the way for Emhyr, but he didn’t order me to kill Adda. I came across her being hidden by the staff who begged me not to kill her, telling me she wasn’t a threat…and she wasn’t. She is still just a child in a woman’s body, so I saw no reason to kill her, but I still had to get her out of the way.”

“You saved her,” Jaskier whispered. Letho inclined his head.

“Like I said, she was just a girl,” he sighed, running a hand over his scarred, bald head. “Apparently after Geralt broke her curse, she spent some time at the Temple of Melitele in order to recover. I took her back there, told the priestess not to tell anyone and not to lose sight of her and I warned her not to come back to Vizima or else her life was forfeit. I think she knew of the danger her life is in, that she could have easily been killed like her father. I think she saw this as a chance to live...and the priestess certainly will look after her.” 

“She’s alive,” Jaskier breathed, speechless. He couldn’t believe it. Most assassins would have taken out the whole royal family, but Letho saw a different path, a different way to get Adda out of the picture without killing her. He looked up to meet Letho’s gaze.

Suddenly he saw the Witcher in a whole new light. Sure, he might have been an assassin, a Kingslayer…but he only did it to protect his brothers, to give them a future. He didn’t kill anyone unnecessarily, like Adda or the servants that tried to protect her. 

“Emhyr seeks the Princess of Cintra,” Jaskier admitted. “She is Geralt’s Child of Surprise.”

Jaskier hadn’t been expecting the sly grin to cross the Witcher’s scarred face. 

“Please tell me Geralt and Vesemir are giving her Witcher training,” Letho chuckled lowly, his grin growing at Jaskier’s slight nod. “Good. I want her to fight like a hell cat if Emhyr ever finds her. That young princess, who he obviously has plans for, trained as a Witcher would surely ruin any plan of his, to use her to marry to one of his lords to get Cintra most likely.”

Jaskier grimaced weakly at that, unable to tell Letho of Ciri’s true parentage. He couldn’t risk that getting out, that information falling into the wrong hands. If that happened then Ciri would have more than Nilfgaard to worry about. 

“If you want to keep the Witchers safe, why did you tell him about Eskel and Lambert?” Jaskier asked as the question suddenly came to mind.

“Gotta give him something, Jaskier, parts of the truth here and there intertwined with a lie, that way the lie is more believable,” Letho responded. “Do not worry about them. I will give them the heads up that Nilfgaard may search for them.” 

Jaskier breathed out a sigh of relief, hands shaking as he sunk back further into the chair as relief flooded through his veins, making him a little lightheaded. 

“You hadn’t told them about Kaer Morhen,” Letho said suddenly. Jaskier shook his head.

“No…after all they’ve done for me, I’d rather die than to betray them,” Jaskier said quietly. “They’re…they’re the closest thing I have to a true family.”

Letho stared at him for a moment longer before he nodded and stood up. “I need to check on the guards, give them another burst of Axii, just to make sure nothing gets back to Emhyr.”

“W-When you get out of here, c-can you pass a message on to Geralt?” Jaskier asked desperately, getting to his feet. “Just…just tell him…I…” Jaskier trailed off, unsure of what he wanted to tell Geralt.

He wanted to tell him where he was, to tell him that he was okay (well, all things considering. He wanted to tell him to stay safe, to stay away…but to come and get him also.

Letho gave a small nod. “I will try to send him a message, to warn him that Emhyr knows of Kaer Morhen but will not attempt anything…and that you are alive.”

“T-Thank you,” Jaskier murmured, inclining his head.

“Take heart, Bard,” Letho told him as he walked towards the door. “Not many can call themselves a friend to a Witcher, nor would an ordinary human be welcomed at Kaer Morhen. They’re searching for you, so don’t give up on them yet.”

“I never have,” Jaskier whispered with a weak smile. Letho nodded once more before he left just as silently as he came, the door shutting whisper quiet behind him. 

With a sigh, Jaskier dropped into the armchair once more, burying his face into his hands. 

He hoped Letho got out safely, that he could warn Vesemir that Emhyr knew about Kaer Morhen, to warn Eskel and Lambert that Nilfgaard would start searching for them…and to give Geralt his message. 

He didn’t know what to say to Geralt…what could he have said? There was no reassurances he could give, other than he was alive and in one piece...and that he just wanted to come home.

He just hoped that Geralt was okay, remembering what Letho said about the concoction, how it weakened Witchers for weeks. He prayed to the Gods that Geralt had gotten help, that he had gotten back to the safety of Kaer Morhen where Vesemir would protect him and make sure he didn’t do anything foolish. 

Glancing out the window, Jaskier stared at the dark grey clouds that were rolling in. 

Winter was fast approaching, the thought making Jaskier’s heart seize. Eskel and Lambert should be making their way back to Kaer Morhen, so hopefully they would be safe until Letho’s warning got to them, ensuring they would remain safe. 

“Be safe,” he whispered to the darkening clouds. “All of you, please. I-I so badly want to join you for Winter…but…I don’t think I will be able to this year.”

Jaskier buried his face back into his hands at that, soft sobs wracking his frame. 

He just wanted to be with Geralt, to be curled up by the fire in the main hall in Kaer Morhen as Eskel and Lambert bickered as Ciri giggled, and as Vesemir rolled his eyes fondly as he read over a large, aged book. Geralt would be shaking his head with fond exasperation as he sorted through his Gwent cards as Jaskier leaned against his side, content with everything.

Just feeling like he was truly home.

The next day, Emhyr stood by the large window in his office, staring down in the courtyard below. He watched as Letho rode out of the courtyard, his soldiers scattering from the Witcher’s path, and heading into Vizima and quickly out of sight. He had spent all night going over the pros and cons of keeping Letho alive and had finally come to a decision.

“Mererid,” he called. The chamberlain quickly appeared by his side.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Summon the bounty hunters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologize that its a little bit shorter than usual, but I tripped over a very uneven piece of footpath the other day and managed to bruise the bone in my wrist and aggravate the nerves when I tried to use my hand as a brake so I didn't fall on my face...so typing is a little bit hard at the moment...don't worry, the local council got a very, very peeved off complaint since they failed to maintain the footpath and had me sent to the ER to make sure I actually didn't break anything...
> 
> But here it is!!
> 
> Letho wasn't so bad in the end...I quite liked his character in Witcher 3, very well spoken with that drawl haha
> 
> Thanks for all of the comments!
> 
> Let me know what you think!! ...what do you think is going to happen next?! :P


	20. Bounty Hunters

Geralt smiled softly at Ciri as she looked his way, panting and face flushed pink with exertion, from where she had been going against the practice dummy, the young princess’s face hopeful for praise.

“Good job,” Geralt told her, coming over to rest his hand on her shoulder and squeezing softly. “You’re improving every day.”

Ciri beamed with pride at that, bristling with pride under the attention that Geralt was giving her.

“Do you think I’ll be ready for the pendulum soon?” she asked him, glancing at the said piece of equipment used in Witcher training. It was huge, situated on one of the side walls, leading into a deep drop on either side. A series of small wooden high steps lined the wall, with giant, heavy swinging pendulums that swung across the wooden steps, aiming to take out the trainee.

It was training in footwork, balance and speed. 

“Mm,” Geralt hummed thoughtfully, glancing at the heavy pendulums, which were lined with spikes. They’d have to make a few adjustments to make it safe enough for Ciri, as she was still fairly vulnerable as a human. Usually when Witcher trainees undertook the pendulums they had at least gone through a few of the Trials and had survived. The pendulums was to get them quick on their feet and ready in their new, mutated bodies. “We’ll see how you go after Winter…and then we’ll talk to Vesemir about it, hmm?”

Ciri nodded, grinning at that. Geralt patted her shoulder once more and stepped back, watching as Ciri turned back to the dummy. 

He glanced over to see Yennefer sitting nearby with Tissaia, who had turned up the day previous. She had given Geralt such a pitying look as Geralt had approached her, desperate to know if she had any news. She had heard nothing of Jaskier, but as the Rectoress, she promised that as soon as she heard something that she would tell him, with promise that Triss and Sabrina were still out there listening…but for now she had come to check on Ciri’s progress.

They had both come out into the training yard to watch Ciri train, to see how she was progressing and to discuss her magic. Both Sorceresses were wrapped in colourful, furry cloaks to protect themselves from the cold wind blowing through the yard.

Winter was just about here and, Geralt glanced up at the grey stormy clouds, the first snow storm would be just around the corner. Sighing, Geralt rubbed at his eyes wearily. 

He prayed to whatever Gods out there who would listen to an abomination such as himself that Jaskier would turn up before Winter started, that one of the Witchers or mages would just turn up at Kaer Morhen with him. 

He turned at the sound of Eskel’s soft but steady footsteps, seeing his brother approaching. Eskel had been gone the last few days, to do the supply run that Vesemir usually did before Winter, and having left to go hunting to stock up on meats for Winter once he had returned. Vesemir had huffed a bit when Eskel told him that he would go in his place, but he was content not to do the trail climb with his aching knees and joints – and he seemed extra pleased to have not have gone when Tissaia had turned up out of the blue.

Geralt had hidden his smirk, elbowing Ciri gently in the side as she giggled behind her hands at the sight of Vesemir and Tissaia. 

Eskel smiled at him as he approached, the scars twisting at his lip.

“How’s our littlest wolf going today?” Eskel asked as he approached. Ciri spun on her heel at the sound of Eskel’s voice.

“Uncle Eskel!” she squealed, quickly placing her training sword aside – so Vesemir wouldn’t get grumpy at her and force her to polish all of the weapons in the armoury or to write out pages of the beastiary – before she leapt onto Eskel, wrapping her arms around his neck tightly.

Eskel stumbled back a step in surprise before he chuckled and wrapped his burly arms around Ciri’s thin middle. 

“Hey there, little Wolf,” Eskel greeted as he hugged her. “Did ya miss me?”

“Always!” Ciri told him as she rubbed her cheek against Eskel’s scarred one. “Geralt said I’m getting better with my sword fighting skills a-and said that we can talk to Vesemir about letting me train on the pendulum after Winter!”

Eskel looked to Geralt at that, arms still full of clinging teenager, and raised an eyebrow. “Did he now?”

“As I said, we’ll see how her skills are after Winter,” Geralt elaborated. Eskel nodded in agreement before finally placed Ciri’s feet back on the ground, though the young teenager seemed reluctant to release the hug. 

Geralt knew that it was because she was comforted by all the hugs and touches, it made her feel accepted and loved…and that she wasn’t alone. None of them ever denied her, all of them growing to love the hugs that they would have once despised or rejected – after all, nobody ever hugged a Witcher willingly. 

“When did you get back?” Geralt asked him as he reached out for Ciri, holding her against his side instead. Ciri immediately burrowed in close to Geralt’s side, wrapping her arms around him. 

“Couple of hours ago,” Eskel answered with an easy shrug as he folded his arms across his chest, glancing at Tissaia and Yennefer briefly. “Had to go get the meat prepared and stored once I got back of course.”

“Of course,” Geralt chuckled quietly. “Always prepared, aren’t you, Eskel?”

“I would like to eat, you know, good, warming food this Winter and not run out of meat after the first week,” Eskel rebutted with a pointed look. Geralt hummed in agreement. 

“Not to mention getting meat back on your own bones, Geralt,” Vesemir’s voice said as he approached their little group. “You’ve gotten far too thin, as though it had been a year of famine.” 

Geralt shifted slightly under Vesemir’s concerned, before giving Ciri a small smile as she looked at his mid-section, which her arms were easily wrapped around, before looking up at him with a frown, her green eyes worried. 

“I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time for eating and drinking once the snow falls,” Eskel added in lightly, trying to break up the awkwardness.

“Mm, yes,” Vesemir agreed with a sigh, side-eyeing Geralt’s slimmer than usual figure before he straightened up. “Lambert should be back before nightfall,” he informed them, watching the surprise cross his face. “Spotted him and a friend half way up the trail this morning…but his friend looks like another Witcher, Geralt,” Vesemir added gently, not wanting to get Geralt’s hopes up. 

Geralt nodded, exhaling softly. He might not be with Lambert…but still, Geralt hoped that his bard would turn up, that they would not have to suffer Winter without him. 

“Wonder who Lambert brought?” Ciri piped up thoughtfully from where she was clinging to Geralt’s side. “He’s not exactly, you know, very people friendly.”

Eskel snorted loudly at that. “You mean he’s an asshole.”

“Well, not really,” Ciri defended her other beloved uncle figure. “Just gotta get to know him…and I don’t think Lambert would really give anyone the chance to get to know him.”

“The boy has a lot of anger and is as stubborn as a mule, but he can be a good judge of character. He doesn’t trust easily, doesn’t open up easily,” Vesemir added. “If Lambert trusts this friend of his, well, I see no reason not to trust him. Lambert trusts him for a reason.”

“Do you think it’s his Cat friend?” Eskel asked curiously, exchanging a look with Geralt. 

“Could be,” Vesemir sighed, “but as I said, if Lambert trusts him enough to bring him home, then I trust him…and do not give your brother crap about this. You know how he’ll get.”

“Huffy and grumpy,” Eskel grinned. “Oh, we know him all too well, Vesemir.”

Vesemir chuckled low under his breath, smoothing down his trimmed moustache as he did so. “Yes, all too well,” he agreed with another soft laugh. “Now, I’m going to go get Lambert’s room prepared for his homecoming.”

“What about his friend?” Geralt questioned, knowing there weren’t many rooms left that were habitable. There was Coen’s room, but Coen had come to Kaer Morhen for the last couple of Winters…and there were the ones that the mages used, but they were in and out these days. 

“Well, we’ll see what their situation is – oh, don’t laugh, Eskel,” Vesemir grumbled at the snickering Witcher. “But if his friend wants a room for himself, then he’ll have to help us clean it.” 

Eskel shrugged, grinning at Geralt – elated with the thought that their prickly, stubborn, asshole of a little brother could have _finally_ met someone that put up with all of him – before it deflated at the sight of the pain flashing through Geralt’s eyes.

_Ah, right,_ Eskel thought with a sigh. Geralt had just come to realise that he loved Jaskier, yet they couldn’t be together and Geralt couldn’t admit to the bard…and now Lambert was bringing back a friend, someone he clearly cared for, which just made Geralt want Jaskier even more, to have Jaskier here by his side. 

“Do you want some help?” Eskel asked instead, tearing his eyes away from Geralt, unable to see his brother in so much emotional pain. 

“No, no, I like getting your rooms ready. It’s soothing in a way, knowing you’ve all come home again,” Vesemir said with a hint of a sad smile. “You can continue training and be here to greet your brother when he turns up.”

Eskel nodded, watching as Vesemir patted Ciri on the head before he turned to walk back to the Keep, which stood tall and strong against the dark grey clouds. Despite its damage and crumbling walls in places, the Keep still stood strong. 

“So, little Wolf, want to have a practice spar?” Eskel asked, turning to Ciri. Ciri grinned, nodding excitedly. “We can show these sorceresses just how strong you are, huh?”

“Yes!” Ciri giggled, though she glanced up questioningly at Geralt. 

“Go, be careful…and watch your left side,” Geralt told her with a wink and secretive smile. “Eskel has a tendency to go for the left.”

“Hey!” Eskel groused playfully, punching Geralt’s shoulder lightly. “Don’t tell the little Wolf my weaknesses.”

Geralt just smirked and Eskel reached forward to tug at Ciri’s braid. 

“C’mon, little Wolf, let’s have a round or two before Lambert gets here…that way we can plan a sneak attack on him for when he arrives,” Eskel grinned mischievously. 

Geralt walked over to sit by Yennefer and Tissaia as Ciri picked up her training sword, as Eskel went to go grab one for himself. 

He sunk down to sit on the bench with a sigh beside Yennefer, muscles aching. He was slowly beginning to get back into training and physical exercise as the effects of the concoction began to fade. It had been a task though, with him becoming exhausted far more quickly than he would usually.

“She seems to be coming along in leaps and bounds, fighting wise,” Tissaia spoke up as they watched Eskel and Ciri circle each other, training swords at the ready. “You, Vesemir and your brothers have done well training her.”

Geralt blinked in surprise at that. Tissaia wasn’t one to give praise lightly, or at all, if Yennefer was to be believed. In response he gave a slow nod, smirking slightly as Ciri let out a battle cry and charged at Eskel, who laughed as he leapt back, pirouetting slightly in order to make Ciri charge past him and swatting her on the rear with training sword as she went past. 

Ciri yelped as she was swatted before she spun on heel and lunged at Eskel once again.

“She is a very eager student,” Geralt murmured. “Vesemir has enjoyed teaching her…despite his complaints that he’s getting too old for this.”

“Oh, he’s not old at all,” Tissaia smiled slightly as she watched Ciri. “Not at all.”

Yennefer screwed up her nose at that, exchanging a slightly disturbed look with Geralt. 

Geralt cleared his throat slightly. “Uh, well, yeah, guess not,” he muttered awkwardly. “The old head of the school was centuries older than Vesemir.”

Yennefer shot him an unamused, scathing look, as though demanding him to change the subject, not wanting to think of her mentor and mother-figure having the hots for Geralt’s mentor and father-figure. 

“How is Ciri’s magical training going?” Geralt asked instead, steering the conversation far away from that awkward one.

“She is showing promise,” Tissaia sighed, looking to Yennefer, who nodded in agreement.

Geralt frowned at that. “You don’t sound so pleased about that.”

“It’s unlocking Ciri’s full potential that is the issue,” Yennefer explained. “Ciri is a well of Chaos, but her Chaos is far different from anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Same as myself,” Tissaia agreed, mouth pursed in a small frown as she looked to Ciri, who was now hanging off of Eskel’s back and cackling loudly as he spun around, trying to get her off. “Ciri has so much power brimming within her, it’s trying to find the best way to bring it out, yet allow her to keep in control of it, that is the issue. If we approach it wrong, she could lose control and harm herself and others around her.”

Geralt’s frown deepened at that as he looked to his young charge, who Eskel had managed to get off his back and had her pinned. Ciri was still struggling furiously to break Eskel’s hold on her wrists, but Eskel just grinned, gripping Ciri’s thin wrists with one large hand before using the other to tickle her side.

“Yield, little Wolf,” Eskel chuckled over Ciri’s giggles. “You did well…but it’s time to yield.”

“No!”

“C’mon, little Wolf,” Eskel crooned. “Yield and we can go plan our prank on Lambert.”

Ciri sighed dramatically, pouting up at Eskel before she went limp as Eskel stopped tickling her.

“Fine!” she sighed. “I thought I almost had you this time.”

“Getting close, little Wolf,” Eskel said as he grabbed her hand and helped her up from the ground. “But I have _decades_ more experience than you do.”

Ciri sighed heavily at that. “Guess so.”

"Don't worry," Eskel reassured her as Ciri brushed the dirt from her clothes. "You'd still be able to hold your own against many opponents, perhaps even beat them."

Ciri smiled at that, seeming relieved and reassured to hear that. She didn't want to be weak. She wanted to be strong enough to defend herself and others from horrible people such as the man in the winged helmet or the Nilfgaardians who had Jaskier. 

Geralt shook his head fondly as Ciri and Eskel went off to plan their prank on Lambert. Eskel usually wasn’t so mischievous, usually seen as the more calm and level headed one out of the three of them…but having Ciri and Jaskier around had let Eskel open up some more. He could be mischievous with Ciri, who would actively try to drag Eskel into her plans and would just include the usually quiet Witcher. 

It pleased Geralt to see Eskel so open and playful with the young girl, to show a side of the burly Witcher that Geralt hadn’t seen since they were young boys. Eskel, much like Geralt, had become the odd one out. Geralt had become the odd one out, to be stared at wearily and suspiciously, after he had survived his second round of Trials. Many of the other Witchers had thought he wasn’t _‘normal’_ , even more so than the usual mutant and freaks that they were usually viewed as.

Eskel had become the odd one out once the instructors had discovered that Eskel had an affinity for the Signs. Eskel could easily beat the older Witchers when it came to using Signs and he had been praised for it as a boy, which had automatically put him on the outer with most Witchers their age. 

It hadn’t help that Eskel wasn’t as loud or as boisterous as most of the others. The others preferred to prove themselves, to fight amongst each other to settle slights – which had been encouraged by some of the older trainers (Vesemir never approved of it) as a way for them to prove their mettle and strength. Eskel preferred to just walk away or to speak, slow and steady as always, to try and defuse the situation. 

Geralt just had to glare at them and they backed off. 

It was why they had become fast friends…and they both had been relieved when they had discovered the other had survived the Trials. 

He watched as Ciri and Eskel plotted (as Tissaia and Yennefer went back to their own conversation) and couldn’t help but think of how much Jaskier would _love_ this. Jaskier had a cheeky, mischievous side and he would have been right in there with Eskel and Ciri, plotting out the best prank to use on Lambert. 

Geralt bit back a sigh as he tilted his head back to stare up at the grey, stormy clouds above, trying to quell the tightening, painful feeling in his stomach that he got when he thought of Jaskier.

He just wanted him back.

A few hours later, Geralt stood at the gate with Eskel, waiting for Lambert to arrive. They knew he was close, spying him not far from the Keep when they had checked…and they could hear the sound of two horses approaching. 

Vesemir approached as Lambert got nearer, glancing up to a beam next to the gate which Ciri was perched upon, waiting for the opportune moment to pounce on Lambert. He shook his head, choosing to ignore that for the moment and to let the child have her fun. Besides, it was good for her skills. 

Eskel turned to open the gate as the hoof steps and footsteps approached, growing louder and echoing through the tunnel. Lambert soon came into view, leading his horse. 

“You look like shit,” Eskel greeted the tired and rumpled looking Witcher teasingly with a grin.

“Fuck off, Eskel,” Lambert returned with a tired smile as he walked through the gate, being followed closely by another Witcher, slim in build with shoulder length, slightly curly black hair, olive skin with a scar bisecting his nose across the thin bridge and wearing light weight, dark blue armour and leading a tan coloured mare. 

The second Witcher glanced up at where Ciri was hiding – though Lambert had yet to see her – and smirked, keeping his mouth closed for the moment as he looked back to Lambert.

Lambert turned and caught Ciri as she leapt at him with a battle cry, quickly shifting her so she was lying cradled in his arms and grinning tiredly at her. 

“How’d you know?” Ciri grumbled as she wrapped her arms around Lambert’s neck and rubbed her soft cheek against his stubbled jaw in greeting.

“Heard your heart racing like a rabbit, little Wolf,” Lambert chuckled as he nuzzled her back. “Nice hiding spot though.”

“Who’s your friend, Lambert?” Vesemir asked, glancing at the Cat medallion hanging around the other Witcher’s neck, as Lambert placed Ciri back on her feet.

“This is Aiden,” Lambert introduced as Aiden stepped forward to stand beside him. “He’s a friend of mine…from the Cat school…and he’s been helping me search for Jaskier.”

Lambert’s eyes landed on Geralt as he finished, noting how Geralt’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly at the mention of the bard.

“I’m sorry we weren’t able to find him,” Aiden spoke up, looking to Geralt as he pressed reassuringly against Lambert’s side. “Lambert has told me so many stories about him…and I wanted to find him, to meet him.”

“He’s certainly one of a kind,” Eskel said, glancing sadly at Geralt as pain flashed through Geralt’s eyes, the only response he was able to give being a jerky nod. 

“Well, thank you for assisting Lambert,” Vesemir spoke up as he gently laid a hand on Geralt’s lower back, to try and give him some sort of reassurance – though he knew it was rather fruitless. 

“It was the least I could do,” Aiden said, smiling at Lambert. “Someone has to make sure he doesn’t make any dumbass decisions.”

“That’s all you,” Lambert shot back in return as Ciri giggled against his side. “He also got some of the Cats to break from the caravan to join the search.”

Geralt looked to Aiden at that, who gave a small shrug.

“It’s the least we could do,” Aiden said quietly, meeting Geralt’s pained gaze. “He made life better for all of us…even us Cats.”

Geralt’s chest tightened at that, wishing that Jaskier could hear this. There were times when Jaskier doubted his music, his songs, and though Geralt always accused him of getting a big head, Jaskier deserved to know how much his songs meant to everyone. 

“We’ll find him,” Geralt managed to get out roughly. “Jaskier doesn’t give up. He knows I won’t give up on him…that we won’t give up on him.”

Aiden smiled at that, giving a nod. “Good, ‘cause we’re gonna find him once the snow melts,” he promised. “And burn down the Nilfgaardian garrison while we’re at it.” 

Geralt nodded in agreement as Vesemir sighed softly, while he didn’t usually approve of such actions…he understood the want and need to do it, to get back at those who had taken their bard from them, who had hurt him. If it took that action for Nilfgaard to learn not to go after the Wolves then Vesemir would stand by his boys actions. 

“Now, this must be Ciri,” Aiden said as he smiled at the teenager plastered to Lambert’s side. “Lambert has told me all about you.”

Ciri blinked up shyly at him, glancing at Lambert who ruffled her hair. 

“I can teach you a few Cat moves…if Vesemir approves that is,” Aiden added on hastily as he looked to the older Witcher. Vesemir rubbed at his moustache thoughtfully as he looked to Ciri’s hopeful face.

“What are Cat moves?” Ciri whispered to Aiden, glancing at the still considering Vesemir. 

“More acrobatic fighting style,” Aiden explained to her. “Wolves are known to pirouette more when fighting, to be light on their feet, but Cats have to be more acrobatic, which is why we have the lighter armour.”

“Well, it would be useful for Ciri to learn different techniques, to find what suits her the best,” Vesemir agreed finally with another small sigh, before looking to Geralt, who was looking lost in thought. “Geralt,” he said, gaining Geralt’s attention. “She’s your Child Surprise. What do you think of her learning Cat techniques?”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” Geralt said with a small shrug, looking at Ciri. “Might help with her technique and suit her style better.”

“She could probably combine them,” Eskel said curiously, also looking to Ciri. “I could see her fusing different techniques as she gets older. She’s that type of student after all.”

Geralt looked to Aiden and Lambert, watching as they exchanged small looks and smiles as Eskel and Vesemir discussed the finer points of different techniques. He saw Lambert’s gaze soften as he looked to Aiden, seeing Aiden return the soft look with a reassuring, comforting smile…and suddenly something seized in his chest, feeling like there was a giant ache in his chest, as though something was missing and he had just realised. 

He stumbled back a step, breath catching in his throat as his mind and heart suddenly screamed _‘Get Away’_ and unable to watch the easy affection between Lambert and Aiden when it reminded him so much of what he and Jaskier had. The movement gained everyone’s attention and all eyes snapped to him.

“Geralt?” Vesemir questioned worriedly, hand coming to rest on his shoulder again. “Son, what is it?”

“Nothing,” Geralt said raggedly. “I-I’ve gotta go check on Roach.”

They watched as he stumbled away towards the stables, all of the Witchers able to smell his distress.

“Oh,” Aiden said quietly, glancing at Lambert. “I see what you mean.”

Lambert winced and gave a curt nod, jaw clenching slightly as rage towards the Nilfgaardians for taking away Jaskier, for hurting Geralt like this, flowed through him. 

Vesemir shook his head, sighing sadly as Eskel drew Ciri in against his side, hugging the teenager tightly. 

“Well, yes,” Vesemir murmured. “He is taking Jaskier’s capture rather hard, as I expect you would if it was Lambert.”

Aiden glanced at Lambert, swallowing deeply before looking to Vesemir and giving a small nod in agreement. Vesemir’s lined face softened slightly at that, knowing that there was someone out there, other than the Wolves, who cared for his youngest son. 

“Now, let’s get you both settled in. I suspect you haven’t rested properly for a while,” Vesemir said as he indicated towards the Keep. “Eskel and Ciri will stable the horses.”

“Thank you,” Aiden said, smiling tiredly as Eskel came to take the reins. “Most places didn’t want to accept two Witchers, so we didn't get much rest.”

“Assholes,” Ciri muttered.

“Cirilla!” Vesemir scolded, gently tugging her braid reprovingly. “Language.”

“But it’s true!” Ciri protested, folding her arms across her chest. “People treat you horribly and you don’t deserve it! You deserve so much better and not to be outcasts because you’re different.” Ciri deflated slightly, green eyes down turning to the ground. “You shouldn’t be treated like you are because you’re different…not like how Grandmother treated non-humans.”

Eskel winced at that, looking uncertainly to Vesemir, who just sighed once again and crouched in front of the young girl, wincing at the ache in his knees at the motion.

“You’re not like her, Ciri,” Vesemir told her gently. “Look at how you’re reacting at how we’ve been treated. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t react like that. It shows you’re different, that you have a good heart.”

Ciri sniffled, scrubbing furiously at her eyes before she looked up to meet Vesemir’s gaze, managing to give a wobbly smile at his concerned gaze. Vesemir smiled back and gently nudged her chin. 

“Now, why don’t you go help Eskel with the horses…and we’ll skip the beastiary lesson today, hmm?”

Ciri gave another weak smile and nod. “C-Can I help you cook tonight?”

“Of course, Pup, I would appreciate that very much,” Vesemir said, groaning as he stood up straight. “Go on now.” 

Ciri took the reins from Lambert, who ruffled her hair once more, before she and Eskel walked off towards the stables, with Ciri grabbing onto Eskel’s hand as they walked, just needing that connection.

“She’s sweet,” Aiden murmured. “Far different from the woman her grandmother was.”

“Ciri fears becoming like her,” Lambert admitted, glancing to Vesemir, who was still staring after them. 

“She has nothing to fear,” Vesemir said finally, turning to look at them. “She’s more Witcher than Princess these days. Now come, I’ll make you something to eat…and I’m afraid that you’ll be sharing Lambert’s room tonight. I wasn’t expecting him to bring a friend and I don’t have a room prepared.”

“That’s fine,” Aiden said quickly, glancing at Lambert. Vesemir raised an eyebrow at the looks.

“If you prefer, you can continue sharing a room with Lambert,” Vesemir added nonchalantly. “Jaskier shares with Geralt when he’s here, finds it more comforting to be beside someone.”

Aiden blinked in surprise, before clearing his throat. “Uh, yes, if-if that’s okay, of course,” he stammered. “Cats find it easier to sleep when we’re beside someone. I guess so we know someone has our back.”

Vesemir nodded easily, hiding his smile from Lambert’s embarrassed face. He knew his boy took comfort in sleeping beside the Cat too just by his expression, but he wouldn’t say anything – not only because Lambert would deny it – because he wanted his boy to be happy and comforted.

“And those two women?” he asked as they stepped inside the Keep, glancing around the large stone building in awe, which made Vesemir smile. “Who are they?”

“Ciri’s magic tutors,” Vesemir answered easily. 

“Be wary of them,” Lambert returned with a sharp grin. “Especially Yennefer.”

“Oh, that’s Yennefer,” Aiden chuckled. “Of course.”

Vesemir shook his head, not wanting to know what Lambert had told Aiden about the mages, and instead led them towards the kitchen. 

It was good to see Lambert happy and relaxed, to see he had someone he cared for. 

Eskel was calm and relaxed too, having Ciri to teach and Geralt to mother-hen over.

Now they only had to bring Jaskier back so he could see Geralt smile once again.

Letho travelled through the mountains, heading in the direction of Aedirn. He was two days out from Vizima, though still in Temeria’s territory, and heading towards the meeting place of his and his surviving brothers. It was where they would decide where to spend the Winter, in some old ruins or large cave, somewhere they could hunt and remain warm until the snow melted and days grew warm again. 

He arrived at their meeting place as the sun peeked through the grey, overcast clouds overhead. 

“Letho!” 

Letho turned to see the brothers, Auckes and Serrit, riding towards him. They stopped just near him and climbed off of their horses to properly greet him. 

As the Viper’s Keep had fallen and as the survivors fled, they had split off into groups, better to watch each other’s backs and yet small enough to remain inconspicuous. Auckes and Serrit had been his friends during their training years and they had fled together during the destruction of their school, ensuring the others survived. Auckes and Serrit had helped him to plan and pull off the assassination of Foltest, though Letho had ordered them away before he had infiltrated the palace, not wanting them to be captured if things went south. 

“What did Emhyr want?” Auckes, the tall and bald brother asked, once they had exchanged their greetings. 

“Yeah, doesn’t want another assassination does he?” Serrit, the younger of the two brothers with shaggy dark brown hair, asked with a snort. 

“No,” Letho answered as he patted his horse’s neck. “It was…”

He broke off suddenly as an arrow whistled towards him, shot from the treelines. He dived out of the way, with his horse rearing and whinnying fearfully, before he drew his steel sword, ready to face his would be attackers.

Slowly they came out of the tree line, all ragged and sneering.

“Bounty hunters,” Auckes snarled, sword in his own hand as he and Serrit came to back Letho up. 

“Only ten of them,” Serrit grinned. “Should be easy pickings. I bet they’re down in five minutes.”

Auckes eyed them off before smirking. “I bet three.”

“Just leave one alive,” Letho growled, gold eyes fixed firmly on the bounty hunters. “I need to know which fool sent them.”

Auckes was right. The fight didn’t take any longer than three minutes with the three trained and pissed off Witchers. The bounty hunters didn’t stand a chance. 

Letho grabbed one who threw a dagger in desperation at Serrit, which Auckes just managed to deflect, and pinned him against a tree by the throat as Serrit and Auckes finished off the rest.

“Who sent you?!” Letho snarled at him. The bounty hunter struggled fruitlessly in Letho’s grip, sneering at him as his long, greasy blond hair covered his face.

“You might ‘ave beaten us,” the bounty hunter hissed, “but we ain’t the only ones huntin’ you. You're a dead Witcher walkin'.”

“WHY?!” Letho bellowed as Auckes and Serrit came to stand by his side, all three covered in blood. They all bared their teeth in sharp smiles at the strong scent of fear and piss that came from the bounty hunter.

“E-Emperor of Nilfgaard ‘as a hit on you,” the bounty hunter gasped around Letho’s crushing grip. “’E wants ya dead!” 

Letho snarled and snapped the man’s neck, stepping back and watching the limp body fall to the damp ground.

“Fuck!” Auckes swore. “The Emperor has a hit on you, Letho, which means they’ll come after all of us!”

“Why the fuck would he do this now?!” Serrit snarled as he kicked one of the bodies on the ground. “We fucking assassinated Foltest for him! He made a fucking deal!”

Letho just stared at the body on the ground. He knew why Emhyr wanted him dead. He knew too much now, knew of things that could be used against Emhyr. 

But he also knew where to go where Emhyr couldn’t touch him, where he could truly cause havoc for Emhyr when it came to Spring.

“We’re going to Kaer Morhen,” he announced, much to the brothers’ shock, turning around to go back to his horse.

“What? Why?” Serrit demanded to know.

“Because Emhyr can’t get us there,” Letho explained before turning to them and grinning sharply, “and because I know a way to making him fucking pay for turning against us.”

“How?” Auckes questioned, intrigued, as he walked up beside him.

“Because I’m going to tell Geralt of Rivia where to find his kidnapped bard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, that's done!!
> 
> Sorry it's taken a little longer, but that fall the other week hurt my hand worse than I thought and I'm having all types of scans on it now, but it's made writing a little slower...but in return for your patient waiting, I've made this chapter a little bit longer than usual ;)
> 
> Hope you liked the ending :P


	21. Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Slight discussion of suicide in here

Jaskier sat on the window seat, staring out blankly across the yard. The yard below was silent, void of the training soldiers, and there was only the odd guard or two making the round – none wanting to brave the rainy, damp weather and the muddy grounds. Winter was quickly approaching, the rains signalling its approach. Soon the temperature would get even colder, turning that rain to snow before it hit the ground. The Wolves would be making their way home to Kaer Morhen now, if they weren’t already there, trying to beat the first snowfall so the trail wasn’t blocked and impassable. 

Sighing, Jaskier tilted his head back so it was resting against the wall. He felt as grey and as dreary as this weather, knowing that he was stuck here…and imagining what it would be like in Kaer Morhen, tucked by the warm fire, the smell of Vesemir’s delicious stew hanging in the air, as Lambert bickered with Eskel and Geralt, as Coen rolled his eyes listening to them, but ignoring them to play some game with Ciri. 

He closed his eyes, a lump forming in his throat and tears stinging in his eyes as he just thought of them all, being safe and warm and together. 

What he would give to be there, to be with them all.

Instead he was stuck here, trapped in some comfortable prisoner, caged like a bird, being forced to wait until he was _‘useful’_ to Emhyr. He wanted to be free, to spread his wings and fly across the Continent alongside Geralt, to have adventure, to have _freedom_. 

He wanted to camp alongside Geralt again, to tend to him after his ferocious battles against some horrifying monster, to perform in an inn and to look over to see Geralt watching him from the corner of the inn, golden eyes fixed upon him. He wanted to be there to see the rare smiles and laughs, to wake up next to the sleeping Witcher and know that he was safe…and that he was wanted.

Swallowing harshly again, Jaskier blinked away the tears which burned at his eyes, and looked to the side as the door opened. Liliana walked in, smiling at him – which Jaskier didn’t have the strength to return. 

Liliana faltered at that, her lined brow furrowing in worry as she walked over to him. She glanced at the tray that she had brought him for lunch, left untouched on the table. 

“Jaskier?” she asked gently as she sat by his feet. “Are you okay?”

Jaskier gave a bitter laugh, glancing back out the window, towards the stormy sky. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m not.”

“Can I do anything?” Liliana asked softly, gently touching his leg. “Anything?”

Jaskier just shook his head, bottom lip quivering somewhat before he looked to her, giving a weak smile. 

“No, but thank you, Liliana,” Jaskier said as evenly as he could. “Oh, but I do have something for you.”

Liliana frowned at that, knowing the young bard was trying to deflect on what he was feeling, but she went along with it. “Oh?”

“I know what happened to Adda,” he said quietly, glancing at the door. A gasp wrenched its way from Liliana’s lips as she straightened, taken aback by Jaskier’s very blunt admission.

“What?” she asked desperately. “What happened to her? Is she okay? Is she safe?” 

“She is,” Jaskier told her quietly. “I won’t tell you where she is, just in case, but she is safe.” 

“H-How do you know?” Liliana breathed. “C-Can you trust whoever told you this?”

“Yes,” Jaskier said firmly. “I fully believe him. He doesn’t have a reason to lie about that, not to me.” 

Liliana breathed out shakily, hands trembling at the news. Their Princess was alive. 

“Oh, thank the Gods,” Liliana said, voice shaking as she reached up to rub at her watering eyes. She lifted her head to meet Jaskier’s gaze once more, taking in the tired, lifeless eyes. 

She patted his leg once again, smiling shakily at him as she straightened up. 

“Thank you, sweetheart,” she told him. “Now, I’m going to get you something to eat, something easy on your stomach of course,” she added, glancing back at his untouched plate. “You really need to eat something, darling, you’re looking far too pale and peaky. Something easy to eat but delicious should do it. I’ll be back soon.”

Jaskier just blinked after her as she turned on heel and hurried from the room. Sighing, he shook his head and settled back down on the window seat, turning his head to track the droplets racing down the window pane. 

He didn’t know what to feel. He felt hopeless, like he was never getting out of here, that he wouldn’t be free again…that he would never see Geralt again, to be part of Winter at Kaer Morhen. 

He tucked his arms across his stomach, closing his eyes as thunder rumbled in the distance. 

He didn’t _feel_ like himself. He felt like everything was out of whack, like he couldn’t get free…like he had no future. 

It felt as if all the light had been leeched from the world, leaving it grey and lifeless.

Jaskier opened his eyes again, turning his head wearily as he heard the door open again. Liliana bustled back in, carrying a tray laden with different foods. She came over to his side and rested the silver tray on the seat beside him. 

“Now,” Liliana said as she shifted the tray so it didn’t accidentally get knocked off of the window seat. “I’ve got you some freshly baked bread, some fruits, some biscuits…oh, and I managed to get you some freshly made honey cakes!”

Jaskier stared at the honey cakes, the sticky glaze glistening in the light of the nearby candles. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at them, unable to tear his gaze away from the simple baked goods.

They were Geralt’s favourites, the one small treat he occasionally splurged coin on…or that Jaskier would buy as something special for him, when his Witcher needed something to make him give that small, true smile. 

Suddenly, as though a dam had burst, ragged sobs tore from Jaskier’s throat, tears streaming from his eyes as the pain and heartache from being torn from Geralt, his only family, and being stuck here as some fucking blackmail and treated as some fucking pet that the Emperor could just bring out when he was bored.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Liliana breathed, quickly moving the tray away so she could pull the sobbing bard to her chest. 

“I want to go home!” Jaskier sobbed against her chest, clinging tightly to her grey dress, tears quickly dampening the material. Now the dam was broken, Jaskier couldn’t stop, sobbing out all of the pain and heartache that had been building up yet he had been repressing as best as he could. 

“Jaskier,” Liliana whispered as she stroked his hair comfortingly. “Sweetheart…”

“I-I’m not to be here!” Jaskier said, voice thick with tears. “It’s Winter, I’m meant to be in Kaer Morhen with Geralt! W-We’re meant to be sitting by the fire, l-listening to stories a-and laughing a-and playing Gwent! I’m not meant to be here!”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” Liliana murmured as she rocked him back and forth, letting the scared, heartbroken and alone young bard sob out all of the pain and fears he was feeling upon her chest. She wished there was something to do for the sobbing young man, but there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t help him get home, to get him to the place he wanted to be, with the people he loved.

All she could do was hold him as he cried out his heartbreak and loneliness, to just be there for him and soothe him as best as she could.

Jon stood in the Emperor’s office, across from the Emperor himself as he gave his weekly report. He was still feeling rather tired and a bit displaced himself, still trying to recover from his flashbacks and the trauma and painful memories they always brought back to the forefront. 

“So how is young Jaskier?” Emhyr questioned, resting his chin on his hand as he regarded the young, red haired medic. 

“He has gone quiet, sir,” Jon admitted, fingers flexing uncomfortably behind his back. “He’s become withdrawn. He’s showing the beginnings of a downward spiral.”

Emhyr frowned at that, shifting back to lean languidly in his seat, staring intently at the medic. 

“That’s what we were hoping to avoid, was it not?”

Jon shifted slightly, shifting his weight between his feet before he said, “It was…but in this situation, with someone such as Jaskier, who is full of life and personality…well, it was also unavoidable. The only thing I can really do is to make sure that he doesn’t spiral too far too quickly…and to ensure he doesn’t feel hopeless enough that he goes too far.”

Emhyr’s frown deepened at that, eyes narrowing as he frowned at Jon. “Do you believe he would go that far?”

Jon hesitated, shifting his feet once again. 

“It’s hard to say,” he admitted carefully. “Jaskier is rather strong, and I don’t believe he could do that, to leave his friends behind and bereft at his passing…but I also do not know the extent of how far Jaskier could spiral, of how desperate he could get.”

Emhyr hummed in displeasure at that before he sighed, “I don’t believe he will go far, to put his friends through that pain…but we need to make certain that he doesn’t get so low that he proves us wrong.”

Jon flinched at that, but nodded. He was about to make some suggestions when a knock at the door interrupted them. 

Emhyr scowled but called, “Enter,” knowing that Mererid wouldn’t dare to interrupt him unless it was important. 

Mererid walked in, quickly followed by a nervous looking elderly woman dressed in the grey servant garb. 

“Apologies, Your Majesty, but Liliana has some concerns about the bard,” Mererid reported as he bowed low, with Liliana mirroring his actions. Emhyr frowned but nodded, waving Mererid away. Mererid bowed once more before leaving. Emhyr turned his gaze to the nervous woman, her lined face pinched in her unease. 

“My apologies for interrupting, Your Majesty,” Liliana said, voice wavering with nerves and hands grasping at the light grey apron she wore, “but I needed to speak to Jon concerning Jaskier…and I didn’t think this could wait.”

Emhyr nodded before ordering calmly, “Tell me why you’re concerned about Jaskier.”

“I-I noticed that he’s gone quiet, he’s not his usual cheery self. Usually when I walk in, he’s kind and sweet and he always give some playful, flirty banter when I deliver his food…but he’s been quiet and withdrawn, not smiling or really reacting to anything,” Liliana said. Emhyr frowned at that.

“Continue,” he ordered, getting impatient.

“Well, he has also been off of his food these last few days,” Liliana continued, glancing at Jon, who was listening intently. “He’s only been picking here and there, but barely eating enough that a young man of his age and build should be eating.” 

Emhyr glanced at Jon at that, who looked concerned at what Liliana was saying. 

“So, I decided I’d bring him some bite sized foods, something easy to eat, to try and coax him to get something down,” Liliana explained. “There were also some freshly baked honey cakes, which I thought might help to perk him up…so, I brought him the food to where he was sitting on the window seat, just staring out blankly into the rain, and put it down…and…and soon as he saw the honey cakes, he just sort of shut down.”

“Shut down?” Jon questioned in concern. Liliana nodded, exhaling as she nervously tugged at the hem of her apron.

“He just went blank and his eyes went distant…and I couldn’t get him to respond,” Liliana said, voice wavering as she thought of the broken bard, “and then he just broke down, started sobbing like a dam had broken and he just didn’t stop.”

“What did you do?” Jon asked, worried to know how Liliana reacted as Emhyr listened in. 

“I held him,” Liliana stated, looking to Jon in disbelief as if he had expected her to anything different. “He’s just a boy. He just needed to be held while he cried out all of his hurt and loneliness.”

“Did he say anything?” Emhyr questioned as Jon frowned. 

Liliana swallowed and gave a small nod, answering, “He cried about wanting to go home, to be with Geralt in Ker Moran or something for the Winter?”

“Kaer Morhen?” Emhyr asked, straightening up slightly in his seat at that.

“That’s it,” the elderly woman nodded. “Apparently that’s where he was meant to be for Winter, sitting by the fire, telling stories and being with Geralt.”

Emhyr hummed thoughtfully at that, looking to the Temerian woman and tilting his head curiously.

“How did you comfort him?” he asked, voice going sharp. “Did you say you could help him? To get him home?”

“No,” Liliana said quickly, shaking her head. “I told him at the very start not to expect that from me, that I could not risk my family for him.”

Emhyr hummed again, just staring at her, as though trying to catch her in a lie.

“All I did was hold him, stroke his hair until he had cried himself out of tears and to the point of exhaustion,” Liliana continued, voice breaking somewhat. It had broken her heart to hear Jaskier’s heart wrenching sobs as he clung onto her tightly. “Once he was done, I got him tucked into bed and got a damp cloth to wipe down his tearstained face and his poor, sore, swollen eyes, before I made him drink a couple of mugs of water.”

Jon nodded, brow still pinched in concern but shoulders a bit more relaxed, knowing that Jaskier had been taken care of and soothed and not just left alone during his breakdown.

“I asked him what if I could do anything to help,” Liliana admitted, “like if he wanted a drink, or a fluffy blanket or pillows, or something…”

“What did he ask for?” Emhyr pushed, knowing that the bard had asked for something.

“A notebook and a charcoal pencil,” Liliana said. “I said I would see what I could do, but I asked him what he wanted it for. He said that he wanted to write stuff down, so he didn’t forget the better times.”

Jon winced at that, looking at Emhyr, who just scratched at his chin thoughtfully as he stared at the elder servant.

“You told him you would not help him escape, yet you try and do what you can to help him feel more…settled,” Emhyr stated, making Liliana frown slightly in confusion. “Why even do that?”

“He’s just a boy,” Liliana said, confused. “He’s frightened, though he does his best not to show it, and…well, I’m a mother – I see a young boy who’s scared and uncertain, so I will do my best to soothe and reassure him...even if I can’t help him in the way that he wants.”

“You have a son?” Emhyr questioned as Liliana swallowed nervously.

“No, Your Majesty, I was blessed with a daughter,” she said, anxious about why Emhyr was asking such questions. “She grew up into a beautiful young woman, married a man she loved and adored and who loved and adored her in return, and they gave us two beautiful grandsons.”

“But you provide for them?” Emhyr asked, intrigued, recalling her earlier wording that her family depends on her.

“My son-in-law was killed by bandits and my daughter was bereft without him, unable to go on,” Liliana said, voice breaking at the painful memory. “My husband and I raise our grandsons now. He looks after them during the day and they help him out in the carving stall my husband has. He was injured a long time ago in one of the civil wars and the boys help him out.”

“And you work here, for Nilfgaard, for me, to keep them fed?” 

Liliana nodded, bony fingers clutching at her apron again. “I’ve always worked in the palace, for the Royal Family…no matter who it is, Your Majesty.”

Emhyr hummed thoughtfully, leaning forward, dark eyes fixed upon her. “Is that why you look after Jaskier so well?” he asked her quietly, intently. “Does he remind you of your daughter, of when she lost that spark of life?”

Liliana swallowed, blinking back tears before she gave a jerky nod. 

“I-I couldn’t save her,” she breathed brokenly, “I didn’t recognize what was happening in time…but…but I can help Jaskier.”

Emhyr nodded, content with that as he leaned back. “Thank you,” he told her, surprising her and gaining a deep curtsey. “You may go back to your duties...actually, you may go home for the day. Go be with your grandsons…and be back for work tomorrow.”

Liliana bowed low again, surprised and shocked by that. “O-Of course, Your Majesty, thank you.”

Emhyr nodded and watched her hurry out before he turned to Jon, who was looking worried but thoughtful. 

“Well?” Emhyr asked him.

“He spiralled faster than I thought,” Jon admitted with a heavy sigh. “Apparently Winter is an important time for him.”

“He spends it with Geralt at the Witcher’s Keep,” Emhyr added. “They’re together all Winter, probably amongst the other Witchers.”

“Who, knowing Jaskier, would be like family to him,” Jon sighed, scrubbing at his face tiredly with his knuckles. “No wonder he spiralled so quickly, knowing in his heart that he shouldn't be here, and yet is here and kept away from those he longs to be with.”

Emhyr nodded. “What do you take of the request for a notebook?”

“Well, it could be good for him, to have something to focus on,” Jon said slowly, carefully choosing his words as he took his hand away from his face. “On the other hand – and I’m thinking pessimistically here – it could be his way to give his final words to the world.”

Emhyr frowned with displeasure at that, leaning back in his chair and steepled his fingers together, deep in thought.

“You will establish what he wants with it,” Emhyr ordered, “and you will report back to me.”

Jon nodded in agreement.

“If he’s going to be like this all Winter, what is the best play to keep him from spiralling completely? How do we prevent him from going in the place we can’t get him back from?” Emhyr continued, looking to Jon. Jon ran a hand through his curls, deep in thought.

“The best thing would not to allow him to be alone all the time, to not keep him locked away,” Jon said carefully. “He needs things to do, to keep him occupied so he doesn’t get lost in his thoughts.”

“Well, we are overdue for some sort of gala,” Emhyr said, lips turned upwards slightly in amusement. “The advisors won’t shut up about it. Perhaps letting him perform will bring back some of the spark.”

“It could,” Jon mused.

“But, yes, we won’t let him be left alone,” Emhyr agreed, mind already going over different plans and tactics. “Now go, make sure he doesn’t do something foolish. He still has use here.”

Jon bowed down low. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he demurred before he turned and left. 

Emhyr exhaled as he leaned back, fingers pressing into his temples, feeling a headache coming on. Jaskier was still useful and Emhyr had plans for him. He couldn’t lose him yet, not when Jaskier could be the key to him getting Ciri, or for getting Ciri to accept her place in Nilfgaard. 

Even if he had to have Jaskier sit in his office, reading some book or playing his lute, tucked somewhere out of the way in order to keep an eye on him, Emhyr would do that.  
With a sigh, Emhyr took his hands away from his head. He would wait for Jon’s report on how badly he believed Jaskier was spiralling and the lengths he thought necessary to ensure Jaskier’s safety and wellbeing. 

Though, Emhyr had to admit he was surprised that the servant had come to search out Jon so desperately. She had been one of Foltest’s, one that he had kept on – and who had stayed on despite the fact that he had had her King assassinated. Yet she had come forth as quickly as she could, to warn them of Jaskier’s deteriorating emotional state, even if it meant interrupting their meeting. 

Frowning thoughtfully, Emhyr leaned forward to make a note for Mererid. He wanted to reward that loyalty, even though he knew that she would have much preferred to let Jaskier go. She could have helped him to escape, or left him alone and not gotten involved, yet had done neither.

He wrote down a note to raise her pay or to go to her husband’s stall, to see if there was anything of interest there, to see if he had useful skills that could get him employed for special jobs.

Loyalty should be rewarded after all. 

Now, he only had to figure out a way to ensure Jaskier didn’t spiral too far and that the sassy, overly cheery bard didn’t break. It would be a loss to lose someone of his talent, to have him so broken and despondent that he was no longer the man he once was. 

Jaskier stumbled out of the bed once Liliana had left, heading towards the window seat once more. His eyes itched and burned from all the tears he had cried, feeling hot and dried out, yet he did his best to ignore as he flung the window open. Cold droplets of rain immediately hit his face, cooling his warmed, flushed skin. He peered out the window at the ground far down below, all muddied and damp. 

He wanted to get out so, so badly, but he knew that if he tried to jump or even tie sheets together to make a rope, he’d end up breaking both of his legs or killing himself. 

A bitter thought crossed his mind unwittingly, that it wouldn’t matter if it did, that at least he would be free.

He growled under his breath as he pushed that thought aside, slamming the windows shut. He wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t do that, not when there was still so much in the world to see…and not when he knew that Geralt would be searching for him. He couldn’t hurt Geralt and Ciri and the Wolves in such a way, to know that their search was for nothing, that Jaskier had given up hope on them.

Jaskier lifted a hand to grab at the medallion, looking at the snarling wolf. He’d _never_ give up on them.

Exhaling, and feeling exhausted, Jaskier turned to go back to bed before freezing when he saw a woman standing a few steps behind him, her green eyes focused intently upon him, set off by her blood red hair.

Jaskier stumbled back a few steps as she took one towards him. 

“W-Who are you?” he stammered, heart racing in his chest. He hadn’t heard her come in, hadn’t heard her approach. 

Something…something was otherworldly about her too, something about her eyes and the way she held herself. 

“It does not matter,” she said, voice lilting and musical. “What matters is you, Jaskier. You are important…more than you know.”

Jaskier couldn’t help the scowl that pulled at his lips at that. “So everyone keeps saying. Did Emhyr send you?”

“No Emperor controls me, Jaskier,” she responded calmly. “You are important because you are important to Geralt.”

Jaskier shot up straight at that, eyes widening as he stared at her. “Who are you?” he demanded once again, wanting to know so desperately who was so interested in Geralt.

She smiled softly at him once more, stepping up to crowd him up against the window seat, not giving him any room to get away.

“See how important your existence is, Jaskier,” she whispered to him, hands slowly coming up on either side of the panicking Jaskier’s head, yet he felt like he was unable to move, to get away. Her fingertips touched his temples and she whispered. “ _See_.”

The world went hazy and Jaskier felt his eyes roll back before images and scenarios flashed across his mind.

_He saw his own body, still and broken, with Jon looking broken kneeling beside him and Emhyr standing there, a scowl fixed upon his face before he marched away._

_He saw Geralt, saw him reading a letter before his face crumpled, an animalistic, heartbroken howl escaping his lips – the most painful, heartbreaking noise that Jaskier had ever heard – and collapsing to his knees, seeing Eskel, Lambert and Vesemir racing towards him._

_He saw Geralt saddling up Roach, face set and expressionless with golden eyes burning with rage with Ciri standing behind him, begging him not to go. Geralt just ignored her as he swung up onto Roach’s back, with Vesemir quickly pulling Ciri out of Geralt’s path._

_He saw Vesemir watching Geralt go, with Eskel and Lambert close behind him, pain and worry within his golden eyes before a sad acceptance settled in…as though he would never see them return. Yennefer stood beside him, shaking her head._

_He saw Geralt riding Roach hard with Eskel and Lambert close behind him, though seeming as though they were struggling to keep up. Eskel looked to Lambert, face desperate, but Lambert just shook his head, both of them continuing after Geralt._

_He saw Geralt riding into Vizima, cutting down guards who tried to stop him, heedless of the screams that echoed around him._

_He saw Geralt fighting back an army of soldiers, with Eskel and Lambert covering his back, all of them covered in blood._

_He saw Lambert falling to a sword, collapsing lifelessly to the ground, hearing Eskel’s screaming for Lambert, for their baby brother, as Geralt continued through the hoard of guards._

_He saw Emhyr falling under Geralt’s sword before Geralt stumbled back, collapsing on the ground. He saw Geralt touch his side, where blood was streaming from, where Emhyr had stabbed him, his side having been exposed as his armour had been damaged sometime earlier._

_He saw blood streaming from Geralt’s lips as he leaned against the wall, the sounds of fighting still echoing outside the room, surrounded by bodies._

_He saw Geralt pull out a dagger from his boot, the hilt decorated with engraved flowers and hold it close to his chest as Eskel ran in, one arm hanging loosely by his side and covered in blood._

_He heard Eskel plead for Geralt to hold on. He watched as Geralt shook his head, smiling weakly as blood bubbled out from his mouth, still holding Jaskier’s dagger against his chest above his heart – seemingly oblivious to Jaskier’s screams for him to get up and go with Eskel, to live._

_He watched Eskel sit beside Geralt until Geralt went limp, the light fading from the golden eyes. He watched as Eskel bowed his head, shoulders heaving slightly with silent sobs as he pulled Geralt’s medallion off, tucking it into a pouch beside Lambert’s bloodied medallion._

_He was forced to watch, through horrified eyes, as the Continent burned, with all sides warring. Redania had taken advantage of Emhyr’s death to push back against Nilfgaard, while all of the Lords vied and battled to become the next Emperor._

_He saw Ciri sitting curled up at the training yard, eyes blank and lifeless, with an aged Vesemir sitting nearby – looking like he had aged centuries in days – as he watched Eskel kneel in front of the markers for Lambert and Geralt, knowing that Eskel would never be able to return to the Path, his right arm rendered useless. He knew that Eskel would die if he had to face one of the monsters near the Keep._

_Jaskier screamed, though no one heard him, pleading for it to stop, tears streaming down his face as he watched his loved ones die in front of him._

_“This can be stopped,” a voice whispered, surrounding him as everything went dark. “You are the catalyst, Jaskier. You must **live**.”_

Jaskier’s eyes snapped open and he shot upright, clothes sticking to him with sweat as he gasped for breath, glancing around the room, making sure this was real. With a shaky breath, Jaskier kicked off the sweat drenched blankets, burying his face into his hands. 

It felt like a horrible dream, especially since he woke up in bed, but he just knew that it had been real, that it had been a vision, a warning. 

A sob wrenched its way from his throat as he remembered seeing Lambert fall, to see the life drain from Geralt’s eyes as Geralt _died_ trying to avenge him, to see Vesemir looking so old and tired, having lost all about one of his sons. 

Though Jaskier still couldn’t get the memory of the light fading from Geralt’s eyes out of his mind, as his face went slack in death. 

“Jaskier?!” 

Jaskier just sobbed at Jon’s worried voice before he felt Jon’s hands rest on his shoulders.

“Jaskier, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“J-Just a bad dream,” Jaskier managed to get out between sobs, unable to tell Jon of the horrors he had seen, able to even voice it. “Just…oh, gods, _Geralt_!”

Jon’s arms wrapped around him, trying to reassure and comfort him. 

“It’s okay,” Jon murmured as he stroked Jaskier’s back. “It was just a dream. I am certain that wherever Geralt is that he is safe and well and thinking about you and how to safely get you back.”

Jaskier shuddered at that, trying to reassure himself that Geralt would be at Kaer Morhen with Lambert, Eskel, Vesemir and Ciri. 

He finally managed to get his breathing under control and pulled out of Jon’s half hug, and rubbed the tears from his eyes.

“I’m good, I’m good,” Jaskier breathed as his heart slowed. He knew he would have to survive this, to fight back to keep who he was, to live until he was free. He kept images of Geralt safe and sound in Kaer Morhen in his thoughts, just trying to convince himself that that was where Geralt was. 

Jon frowned, looking unconvinced, but let it go, seeing that Jaskier was calming. 

“Well, Liliana spoke to me,” Jon said, pulling a notebook from his pocket, “she said you asked for this.”

Jaskier sighed at the sight of the leather bound book, fingers itching to write something in it already.

“But, before I give it to you, I need to ask,” Jon said, keeping the notebook held tightly in his grasp. “What do you want it for, Jaskier?”

Jaskier frowned, confused, as he rubbed at his red, slightly swollen and tearstained eyes.

“To write,” Jaskier said as though it was the simplest thing in the world. “I-I want to write about Geralt, about Lambert, Eskel and Vesemir,” he admitted, not bothering to lie about them anymore. What use was lying when Emhyr already knew about them? “I want to write down what I miss, to write songs about them that I won’t be allowed to sing here…so when I see them again, I can show that I never forgot them, that thinking of them made the days easier.”

Jon nodded, sighing slightly in relief as he handed the notebook over, unable to keep the smile off of his face as he watched Jaskier run his fingers over the soft dark leather cover before he flipped through the blank pages. 

“I hope to hear some of them, if you’re willing to share them, of course,” Jon said quietly. “I’d like to hear stories of the different Witchers, to hear their tales.”

Jaskier gave a small, sad smile as he looked back to Jon. “Their stories deserved to be told,” he said quietly, sadly as he ran his fingertips across the cover once again. “They are all good men.”

Jon smiled at that, relieved to see that Jaskier was looking calm and that there was some light back in his eyes. Maybe he just needed a good cry to get all of those repressed emotions out and that had settled him?

Either way, Jon promised silently as he watched Jaskier begin to scribble in the notebook, he wasn’t going to leave Jaskier alone that often. He would not let Jaskier lose all who he was.

Geralt sat beside Ciri on the steps to the training yard watching Aiden and Lambert spar each other, the lightest covering of snow being kicked up at their movements. Coen and Eskel were sparring nearby, but it was nowhere near as amusing as watching Lambert and Aiden, who bickered and teased each the whole time they were fighting, even as they attacking each other.

Coen - who had arrived just days earlier, looking sombre and apologetic as he arrived alone, having been unable to find Jaskier - glanced over and laughed at a particularly funny insult from Aiden about Lambert, yet still managed to deflect the Aard that Eskel had cast at him.

“Look at how he moves!” Ciri breathed as she watched Aiden leap over Lambert’s head, flipping mid-air so he could land facing Lambert’s back. “Do you think he could teach me that?!”

“With a lot of practice maybe,” Geralt murmured back in response. 

“Stop!” Vesemir’s order snapped through the yard, all fighters immediately pausing and turning to look at the elder Witcher, who was coming towards them.

“Vesemir, what is it?” Eskel asked, concerned as he took in Vesemir's set jaw and sharp, calculating eyes.

“Three Witchers approaching the Keep,” Vesemir told them shortly. “Don’t know who.”

“Ciri, go inside and find Tissaia and Yennefer,” Geralt ordered. Ciri bit her lip, but one look at Geralt’s and Vesemir’s expressions had her nodding and quickly darting inside. 

Geralt, Aiden, Eskel, Lambert and Coen all followed Vesemir to the main gate, swords in hand or on their backs, ready to pulled at a moment’s notice. 

“I’m surprised they even tried coming here so late,” Lambert muttered. “Any later and the trail would have been impassable.”

“Snow hasn’t fallen yet,” Eskel sighed, shifting from foot to foot in preparation. “Well, not the heavy stuff anyway,” he finished, toeing at the sparse covering of snow on the ground.

“Enough,” Vesemir ordered. “They’re here.”

“Master Vesemir!” a voice called from the other side of the gate, the new comers’ just feet away now. “Please allow us sanctuary for the Winter.”

“Depends on who is asking,” Vesemir called back.

“Letho of the Viper School,” came the reply as the hulking bald figure came into view, leading his horse, “and my fellow Viper Witchers, Auckes and Serrit.”

Vesemir nodded to Coen, who opened the gate, allowing the Witchers entry – though the Wolves and Aiden did not let down their guard. 

Geralt kept a sharp watch on the leader, who immediately looked at him as he stepped through the main gate.

“Why come now?” Vesemir asked him gruffly as he stood in front of him, blocking the Vipers from coming in any further. 

“We’re being hunted,” the one with hair spoke up. “We seek refuge…and Kaer Morhen is the safest place for Witchers.”

“Who are you being hunted by?” Lambert demanded to know, grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. “Who’d you piss off?”

“The Emperor of Nilfgaard,” Letho answered, eyes still remaining on Geralt. “I know that this is sudden, but I do have information I can trade in order for lodgings for the Winter.”

“No one stays here and doesn’t pull their weight,” Vesemir grunted, “and we don’t want you bringing an army on our heads.”

“Of course,” Letho agreed, inclining his head, “but Nilfgaard won’t follow us here…and I have information that you, Geralt of Rivia, will find most intriguing.”

Geralt’s amber eyes narrowed at that, jaw setting as he glared at Letho.

“What is it?” he demanded to know.

“First, I want permission for us to stay here from you, Master Vesemir,” Letho said, eyes briefly snapping to look to the elder Witcher. “We will pull our weight, help hunt, whatever you require…but we need somewhere safe to stay, somewhere protected.”

Vesemir paused for a moment, looking over the three Witchers. Nilfgaard had already caused them enough grief with them taking Jaskier, but now they were hunting these three? Something was at play here and it wasn’t something Vesemir liked. He cast his gaze over his sons, Aiden and Coen.

Could he risk their lives and safety for the protection of these three? What if Nilfgaard decided to try and come for them? Would they be able to track the Witchers here and put the safety of Kaer Morhen and its’ occupants at risk? Could they be trusted with keeping Ciri a secret once they left?

“Why are they after you?” Vesemir asked first. 

“Because I know too much,” Letho answered simply. “I know something that will put them at risk, which I will tell you, if you allow us to stay here.”

Sighing, Vesemir nodded. He couldn’t turn them away, there were so few of them left…and he reassured himself that the snow would fall soon and that nobody would be able to get to the Keep before the snow melted...and if he didn't trust them to keep quiet about Ciri, then, well, steps would have to be taken.

“What’s this information then?” Eskel asked, eyes darting from Letho to the other Vipers and back again.

Letho turned back to look at Geralt and gave a sharp grin, answering, “It’s what you’ve been looking for,” he said. “What will you bring you down from Kaer Morhen come Spring and ruin all of Emhyr’s careful planning.”

“What is it?” Geralt snarled, not in the mood for games.

“I know where Nilfgaard is keeping your bard, Geralt of Rivia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pheew, that was one long chapter...but yes, we're starting to move now!!  
> ...though still some things to happen before a rescue attempt is mounted of course
> 
> Let me know what you think!!


	22. Overwhelmed

Geralt snarled, lunging forward and grabbing Letho by the collar of his jerkin, forcing him backwards until he had him pinned against the wall.

“What did you say?!” Geralt snarled, amber eyes flashing dangerously as he pinned the Witcher who almost double the width of him. “Where is Jaskier?!”

Letho just stared back, golden eyes faintly amused as he held up a hand to stop Serrit and Auckes from lunging, though Lambert and Aiden had quickly leapt in between them, teeth bared in a threatening snarl to stop them from going for Geralt. 

“Jaskier, your bard, is the prized captive of the Emperor of Nilfgaard himself; Emhyr var Emreis,” Letho said simply, eyes fixed on Geralt’s face. “He’s being held in Vizima Palace.”

“Fuck,” Lambert breathed, looking to Eskel, who was looking just as horrified as he was. Jaskier was practically in a fortress, surrounded by Nilfgaardian soldiers.

“How do you know this?” Vesemir questioned firmly, managing to keep his head despite the shocking revelation. 

“Because I saw him with my own eyes,” Letho stated. “Emhyr brought me in, apparently to get your bard to slip up and give him some information that he wanted.”

“Why’d the Emperor of Nilfgaard call you in?” Aiden asked suspiciously as he looked over his shoulder at Letho, who was still pinned to the wall by a now speechless, wide-eyed Geralt. 

“Because I was workin’ for him,” Letho admitted, glaring at the Cat Witcher. “He offered me a deal. I kill a couple of Kings for him and he’d make sure that the School of Vipers survived, that we all would survive, that the Vipers would survive after we were practically destroyed by the Usurper.”

“So you murdered for him?” Coen asked disgusted.

“Don’t act all superior, Griffin,” Letho growled at him over Geralt’s shoulder. “As if you wouldn’t kill a King or two if it meant the survival of your brothers. What are a handful of humans, of Kings who have ordered our extinction, against our survival?” 

Lambert made a noise in his throat as he glanced at Aiden. He couldn’t argue that he wouldn’t have done the same if he was faced with the same choice to save Aiden and his brothers and Vesemir. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt finally managed to get out, grip tightening on the neck of Letho’s jerkin, gaining his full attention once more. “What…how…?” he stammered, unable to get a straight sentence out, unsure of what he wanted to know first…if he wanted to know at all. 

“He’s alive,” Letho assured him. “Being stubborn enough the Emperor called me in to try and get him to talk. Acted a bit like you just then actually,” Letho mused. “Wanted me to give you a message, but didn’t know what he wanted to say.”

Geralt let go of Letho at that, taking a step back, suddenly feeling weak with relief.

Jaskier was _alive_ and Geralt finally knew where he was. 

Letho straightened up his jerkin and armour once Geralt had let him go, looking at the relieved and speechless White Wolf. Suddenly he found himself wondering why the bard meant so much to him…and why Geralt meant so much to the bard. 

“Why did the Emperor of Nilfgaard bring you in?” Eskel asked as he sheathed his sword, now that things had settled down. “What did he want you make Jaskier say?”

“He wanted any information he could get about Geralt, such as where he’d be hiding,” Letho explained. “Jaskier grew frustrated with me and blurted out Vesemir’s name, which informed me that he had been here, to Kaer Morhen.”

“Did you tell the Emperor that?” Vesemir asked, eyes flashing warning, voice low and dangerous.

“I did,” Letho admitted, ignoring the Wolves snarls, “but I also told him that it was impossible to get in here, that after the Sacking you had extensive protective wards placed around the Keep that kept anyone with the intention to destroy or harm the Keep or any of its occupants out.”

“Why’d you tell him about Kaer Morhen if you were just gonna lie about it?” Lambert asked in disbelief as he sheathed his own sword. Aiden kept hold of his though, not ready to trust the Vipers. 

“Better to intersect some truth within the lies,” Letho said casually, “makes it easier to believe.”

“What did Jaskier say?” Geralt asked. “Was he all right?”

“He was angry with himself, but he didn’t give my lie away,” Letho said, looking back to Geralt. “Oh, also, Eskel and Lambert, the Emperor will be searching for you come Spring. He believes he can use you two as further leverage to get what he’s searching for.”

“Pfft, good fucking luck to him,” Lambert muttered venomously. “I’d like to see him fucking try.”

Vesemir looked concerned with the news, lips pulled into a frown as he looked over Eskel and Lambert worriedly. He didn’t want his boys to be the next targeted. He couldn’t bear to lose them to some Emperor’s greed. It was bad enough that Jaskier was gone, with their Pack eerily and uncomfortably quiet without their bard, but he couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like without Eskel and Lambert, knowing they were in danger, that they could be seriously hurt. 

Geralt barely heard what was being discussed, his mind reeling with the thought of Jaskier, the _knowledge_ that Jaskier was alive and that his location was known. Relief flooded through him, making him light headed, finger tips tingling slightly and knees wobbly under his weight, just wanting to give out with the relief he was feeling.  
Jaskier was now in reach, now that he knew where he was. 

He lifted his head to find the others were still discussing what Letho had told Emhyr, but Geralt couldn’t care less.

“What are we waiting for?” Geralt croaked out. “We know where Jaskier is, let’s get him!” 

“Geralt,” Vesemir said, voice firm and tone brokering no argument. “We cannot.”

“We know where he is!” Geralt argued back, shoulders tensing. “We can’t let him stay there! They’ll hurt him like they did last time!”

“Geralt, there is no chance we could make it there before the snow fell,” Vesemir continued, voice even and firm as his gaze bored into Geralt’s. “I know how much you want to go for the lad, believe me I do too, but we cannot…not yet. We would never make it to Vizima, and even if we did and we somehow got Jaskier out, we would be exposed with nowhere to hide. Jaskier would be still in danger, not only from Nilfgaard, but from the elements also.”

“But…” Geralt breathed, voice breaking and heart thumping in his chest. Jaskier was so, so close…yet he still remained out of reach.

Vesemir stepped up in front of Geralt, making Geralt focus on him as Vesemir placed his hands on Geralt’s shoulders, squeezing slightly.

“V-Vesemir, please,” Geralt whispered brokenly, shoulders slumping and eyes turning downcast as Vesemir stared at him, unable to look his mentor in his eyes. “I-I can’t just leave him there. We can portal there and back.”

“Say we portal there,” Vesemir said quietly. “What happens if Yennefer or Tissaia is injured during the rescue attempt? Would you sacrifice them to save Jaskier? Would you risk them, your brothers and Jaskier in a hopeless attempt to get away?”

Geralt shook his head silently at that, unable to meet Vesemir’s gaze or the concerned, pitying gazes of his brothers and Coen and Aiden. He knew that Vesemir was right, that he couldn’t risk a rescue going wrong, especially once the snow fell. They wouldn’t be able to get away from an army in the snow, especially if they were injured.

“We _will_ go for him,” Vesemir promised, drawing Geralt from his thoughts. “As soon as the snow melts and the trail is safe, we will go for him. This Winter we will plan extensively, find out all we can about Vizima, all the ins and outs of the palace, where guards should be stationed, the best way to approach. We will plan everything, call upon our allies, and then we will go rescue our wayward pup.”

Geralt nodded, exhaling shakily as Vesemir gently nudged at his chin, silently ordering Geralt to lift his head and meet his gaze, which Geralt did so, meeting Vesemir’s concerned golden eyes.

“Understand, Pup?”

“Yes, sir,” Geralt murmured, shoulders drooping as Vesemir squeezed them again.

“Good.”

“What if they move him before then?” Aiden piped up hesitantly, glancing at Lambert uncertainly as Vesemir turned to face him, with Geralt staring at him over Vesemir’s shoulder. 

Letho was the one to answer that with, “They won’t.”

“How do you know?” Lambert demanded, golden eyes burning as he glared at Letho.

“Because your bard, your… _pup_ ,” Letho drawled slowly, glancing at Vesemir and Geralt, “well, Emhyr has appointed him as the Royal Bard – of course, Jaskier didn’t seem enthused about it, but he can’t argue with the Emperor of Nilfgaard.”

“Fuck,” Eskel breathed, shocked at the news that the Emperor of Nilfgaard had appointed Jaskier, his captive, as the Royal Bard. He knew Jaskier would absolutely hate it, being forced to play and sing for his captor, but he also knew that Jaskier would have no choice, that he would do as ordered to stay alive…and he only hoped that playing music would bring Jaskier, their friend, some sort of comfort.

They all turned at the sound of steady, determined footsteps, with Vesemir sighing when he caught sight of Tissaia and Yennefer striding toward them, with Ciri hurrying along behind, struggling to keep up with their large strides.

“Mages?” Serrit snarled, fists clenching by his side as Auckes slowly reached for his sword.

“Allies,” Vesemir barked at them, turning to face them with a warning glare in his eyes. “They are friends and you will not harm them or you will leave immediately!”

Letho eyed them as they approached before shaking his head at Auckes and Serrit, calming them. “If you trust them, then we will trust your word.”

Vesemir eyed them off before nodding curtly and turning back to face Tissaia and Yennefer as they finally approached, coming to stand beside Eskel and Coen. Ciri partially hid behind Eskel, peering out uncertainly at the three, unknown, very large Witchers. Eskel moved an arm back slightly behind him so he could hold a reassuring hand out to Ciri, who immediately took it, squeezing tightly. 

“I thought I told you to stay inside,” Vesemir said matter-of-factly as he folded his arms across his chest. Tissaia wasn’t swayed by his narrowed gaze, instead casting her gaze upon the three newcomers. 

“Yes, you did,” Tissaia replied coolly. “However, since you’ve seemed to be talking for a while, and your sons have sheathed their swords, I deduced that it was safe to approach.”

“Mm,” Vesemir grunted, unable to argue with that. “Tissaia, this is Letho, Auckes and Serrit…three Viper Witchers will be staying with us over Winter.”

“And you trust them?” Yennefer asked, glaring at the three of them. 

“They brought news of Jaskier, Yen,” Geralt said hoarsely. Yennefer’s head snapped to the side, dark curls whipping around, as she stared at Geralt in disbelief.

“At what cost?” she asked coldly. “How do they know?”

“Already explained it to Vesemir,” Letho said just as coolly, large arms folded across his chest. “We worked for the Emperor of Nilfgaard for a time as he swore that he would ensure the survival of the School of the Viper…but he turned against us, sending bounty hunters after me, so I figured I’d give the heads up about where your bard was.”

“And where is he?” Tissaia asked, flashing a warning look to Yennefer.

“Vizima,” Letho responded, eyes flickering to the stern looking mage. “He has been appointed – against his will – as the Royal Bard.”

Tissaia frowned at that, looking to Vesemir, who just nodded, sighing in understanding.

Something was suspicious there. She didn’t doubt the Witcher’s words, but more of the Emperor’s intent. Why would he appoint a prisoner as Royal Bard? What was his play?

She would discuss this new development with Vesemir later, perhaps they could figure out the reason. 

Yennefer wasn’t convinced though as she eyed the three new Witchers off, not trusting them. She didn’t like that they came here, only after the Emperor turned on them. Who knew if what they said was true or if they had an ulterior motive?

A thought came to mind, which had her tilting her head as she glanced between the three new Witchers.

“So, if you worked for the Emperor,” she drawled, ignoring Lambert’s rolled eyes and huffed sigh, “does that mean that one of you told him the concoction that they used on Geralt in order to weaken him?”

The Witchers all stiffened at that, turning to look at the newcomers.

“That was me,” Letho admitted heavily, looking to Geralt. “Though, in all honesty, I had no idea that they were gonna use it on you. Thought they were gonna use it on me.”

“Then why give it to them at all?” Aiden snapped, looking like he was ready to pounce and claw Letho’s eyes out.

“They knew that some poisons affected Witchers, but they didn’t know what ones,” Letho explained with a shrug. “Thought it was better to give them that and just be weakened, with a chance to recover, then to let them experiment with poisons and whatnot and let them end up killing me with some fucked up concoction that they decided to try as an experiment.”

Yennefer still didn’t trust them, humming under her breath as she looked to Tissaia. Ciri peeked out from behind Eskel finally, still partially hidden behind Eskel’s bulk. Immediately, golden eyes snapped to her and the Witcher with the scarred bald head cocked his head slightly as he examined her.

“And you must be what all this fuss is about, huh?” Letho asked bluntly, though with a hint of sharp grin. He ignored the low warning growls as he examined the teenager with her ashen hair and wide green eyes who was still mostly hidden behind Eskel, who was glaring at him warningly. “Jaskier told me that you were being trained to be a Witcher.”

“He told you?” Yennefer asked in disbelief, looking to Geralt, who just blinked, looking lost. 

“Mm, wanted to know what Emhyr wanted so badly, why he wanted to know about the Wolf Witchers…and he told me that they were looking for her,” Letho explained, somewhat boredly. “Course, I put one and one together after Jaskier let Vesemir’s name slip, about why the Princess would be hidden at Kaer Morhen. So I asked him and he confirmed.”

“And you didn’t tell the Emperor?” Vesemir questioned curiously.

“Nah,” Letho grinned sharply. “I gather he wants her so he can marry her off to some Lord so he can properly reign over her kingdom, but it’ll be amusing to see that _if_ he ever gets his hands on her, that she’ll be a trained Witcher, a little hellcat, that won’t roll over and submit like he thinks she will.”

Lambert flashed a grin in Ciri’s direction, nodding, “Definitely a little hellcat. Won’t take his shit, will ya, Ciri?”

“Never,” she promised vehemently. 

Geralt stood there, listening to them converse…yet not quite hearing it, as though it was going in one ear and out the other. He knew he should be paying attention, after all, it was to do with Ciri and the danger she was in from the Emperor – the crazed man who hunted and captured his bard and had now forced him to be the Royal Bard. 

All he could think about was Jaskier…all he could see was his terrified blue eyes and bruised face, stuck in some dark, cold room all alone – caged and alone, like Jaskier always feared, the bard’s nightmares coming true. 

Geralt backed away slightly from the group, suddenly feeling surrounded and partially trapped by all of the bodies.

“Geralt?” Vesemir’s concerned voice cut through his hazy, panicked thoughts.

“Need to get out,” Geralt muttered. “Too close…too much…”

Vesemir nodded in understanding. As a Witcher, sometimes their senses got overloaded and just made them tense and on edge, just needing to get away from towns and people to find somewhere quiet until they could settle their senses, to calm themselves.

“Don’t forget your swords, both steel and silver,” was all Vesemir told him, ignoring Yennefer’s frown and Ciri’s worried look. “There have been some forktails and wolves near the Keep these last few months. The forktails have been getting bolder, damn things,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Geralt just nodded silently before he turned, stalking off to get his silver sword, shoulders held tensely. 

“Uncle Vesemir,” Ciri piped up, pulling Vesemir’s concerned gaze from Geralt’s retreating back. “Is…is Geralt okay?”

Vesemir glanced at Lambert and Eskel before sighing, rubbing at his moustache, hesitating as he answered, “He will be, little Wolf. He just got overwhelmed…it happens sometimes.”

“Our senses are heightened to the point the world can be a little loud and overbearing at times,” Coen elaborated at Ciri’s confused expression. “Geralt is still under the effects of the potion, which makes it harder for him to regulate his senses and emotions.”

“You mean emotions like him being worried about Jaskier,” Ciri said quietly, looking at Eskel, who gave a small nod. Ciri chewed on her bottom lip worriedly as she glanced to where Geralt was now disappearing through a break in the west wall – which Lambert usually used as a shortcut to get to his boat.

“Stop chewing on your lip, Cirilla, you are not a cow,” Tissaia scolded which just caused the worried Princess to scowl, her worry swiftly turning to anger and annoyance.

“C’mon, little one,” Aiden said, stepping up and nudging Ciri, knowing that she was near to snapping being so worried about Geralt and Jaskier, and having just found out that the Emperor of Nilfgaard probably wanted her to marry her off to someone. “How about I show you how to fight like a Cat, huh?”

Ciri gave a shaky smile and nod at that, exhaling shakily. Aiden smiled at her, stroking her hair.

“Come then, we’ll start while the Vipers get settled in,” Aiden said, inclining his head slightly at Vesemir at the elder Wolf’s grateful nod for distracting Ciri. Aiden glanced at Lambert, giving a small smile, before he wrapped his arm around Ciri’s shoulders and leading her towards the training yard, chattering merrily as he did. Coen shook his head, amused, before he followed, wanting to see what the Cat was going to teach their young Witcher-in-training.

“Come, I’ll show you where you can stable your horses and where you’ll sleep tonight,” Vesemir told them gruffly once Ciri was out of earshot. “Since I wasn’t expecting anyone else turnin’ up, I didn’t get rooms cleared. You’ll have to give me a hand to clear them out.”

“Of course, Master Vesemir,” Letho said, nodding – though he was honestly surprised that they would get their own rooms. He had honestly been expecting to have to bunk on some cots in some sort of shared room that the trainees used to use before they went out on the Path. 

“Come now,” Vesemir said simply before he paused, looking to Yennefer and Tissaia. “I will need to speak to you both afterwards,” he added quietly. “About Jaskier.”

Tissaia and Yennefer nodded before they both headed off inside as Eskel and Lambert exchanged worried glances at that. 

“What is it, Vesemir?” Eskel asked, reaching out to grab his mentor’s arm before he led the Vipers away. The Vipers just stood back, knowing it was better not to interfere. 

Vesemir sighed heavily, turning to meet Eskel’s worried gaze, as he answered, “Jaskier is in one of the most heavily guarded kingdoms with the Emperor who has been seeking out Ciri with a sharp, singular focus. We…we are going to have to plan for every possible scenario that can come from our rescue attempt.”

“What scenario are you thinking?” Lambert asked roughly, eyes narrowed as he glared at Vesemir.

“The scenario where we manage to get into Vizima, but the Emperor uses Jaskier as a living barrier, as his hostage,” Vesemir admitted, glancing to Letho, who gave a small nod, confirming that the Emperor may do such a thing. “Or the scenario where the Emperor chooses to cut his losses and…well…”

“We find Jaskier’s corpse instead,” Lambert finished Vesemir's trailed off sentence with a growl before shaking his head furiously. “No, no, it won’t happen like that. After all the effort the Emperor went to fucking get him – twice actually – he won’t kill Jaskier. He needs him.”

“And that is the scenario I am hoping for,” Vesemir said calmly, looking to Lambert, seeing his youngest bristling and on edge, looking like he wanted to punch something, “but it’s something we need to prepare for, just in case, so we don’t lose Geralt also.”

Eskel barely held back a flinch at that, breath catching in his throat at the mere thought of losing Geralt to his anger and desperation.

“W-We can’t,” Eskel said, voice cracking slightly. Vesemir’s gaze turned to him, softening slightly at the distraught look shining in Eskel’s golden eyes.

“We won’t lose him,” Vesemir promised. “We will do our best to ensure we won’t lose either of them, but that is why we have to plan this out to the smallest of details.”

Eskel exhaled, nodding as he glanced at Lambert, who still looked wound up with anger. 

“Yeah, we’ll plan,” Eskel agreed. “We’ll bring Jaskier and Geralt home, won’t we, Lambert?”

Lambert huffed but nodded, shoulders slumping back somewhat. Vesemir nodded, content with that for now, before he turned back to the Vipers, who had been watching silently, and gestured for them to follow him. The Vipers did so silently, though Letho nodded to Eskel and Lambert, which Eskel returned as Lambert scowled.

Once the Vipers were out of sight, Eskel turned to Lambert, who had his head turned stubbornly away, jaw clenched.

“Lambert,” Eskel murmured, shifting closer to his younger brother. “Look at me, little brother.”

Lambert gave the slightest shake of his head, shoulders held tight as he kept his head turned away, faced towards the training yard where he could just hear Ciri’s peals of laughter.

Eskel gently grasped Lambert’s scruffy chin and coaxed Lambert to turn his head towards him, with Lambert’s golden eyes reluctantly turning to meet Eskel’s troubled ones. Lambert couldn’t hold back once he saw his own distress mirrored in Eskel’s eyes.

“It’s not fucking fair, Eskel,” Lambert said, voice cracking. “We can’t fucking lose Jaskier. H-He’s annoying as fuck sometimes, but he’s ours, ya know?”

“Yes, I know what you mean,” Eskel replied softly. “He’s our brother now too, isn’t he?”

Lambert gave a jerky nod. “And to lose him, and maybe Geralt, because of some fucking Emperor’s messed up plan regarding a fucking child?”

“I know, little brother, I know,” Eskel sighed, leaning forward to rest his head upon Lambert’s shoulder. Lambert softened at that, reaching up to grasp the back of Eskel’s neck comfortingly. “We can’t let Geralt know of our fears, of the worst case scenario.”

“Cause it isn’t going to happen,” Lambert couldn’t help but growl. “We’re not gonna lose Jaskier to some psychopath.”

“I hope so,” Eskel murmured against Lambert’s shoulder. 

“We’re not,” Lambert swore, almost stubbornly childish. “We won’t.”

Eskel smiled sadly at Lambert’s stubborn optimism. Usually Lambert was pessimistic as all hell, but Eskel was pleased to know that despite Lambert’s prickly, pessimistic personality that deep down he was still hopeful and cautiously optimistic.

With a sigh, Eskel straightened up, scars twisting as he offered Lambert a sad, lopsided smile, which Lambert returned weakly, though his shoulders were still tense.

“Should we go watch Ciri try learn how to be a Cat?” questioned Eskel gently. Lambert shook his head, surprising his older brother. 

“Nah, too tense to sit and watch,” he muttered. “I’m gonna go find Geralt, see if he wants to hunt something.”

Eskel frowned at that, but nodded slowly. “Just be careful,” he warned, gaining an eye roll from Lambert.

“Yes, Ma,” Lambert groused as he went to go grab his silver sword, remembering Vesemir’s orders for Geralt earlier. 

“And…don’t tell Geralt of our worst case scenario talk, yeah?” Eskel added on as Lambert walked away.

“I’m not a fucking idiot, Eskel,” Lambert growled back. “I already know the dipshit is blaming himself, he doesn’t need that shit weighing on his mind either.”

Eskel sighed but nodded, watching as Lambert gathered his silver sword before the younger Witcher headed off on Geralt’s trail. Eskel just sighed once more, feeling weary, before he went to go watch Aiden teach Ciri, hoping that that would distract him and lift his spirits.

Geralt walked, not really focusing on where he was going, but just letting his feet take him away from Kaer Morhen, away from the noise and the too many people and the talks about Jaskier and the worried looks directed at him. He shook his head with a huff, trying to shove all of those loud, scrambled thoughts from his mind and to just quiet his thoughts, to calm himself so he could think straight. 

He finally looked up, focusing on where he was for the first time, when he walked into a large shadow, finding himself standing in front of what was once the bastion where the young trainees stayed and trained before the Trials.

Geralt felt a cold shiver run down his spine as he stared at the ruins. That was all that stood of this place, unlike Kaer Morhen’s main Keep which survived, this did not. The ones who sacked Kaer Morhen left nothing of this place, including its child occupants. 

Exhaling softly, Geralt stepped into the ruins, glancing about at the different levels. He could barely remember his time here from before the Trials, only bits and pieces really, as the Trials and the years had blurred most of those memories. He remembered meeting Eskel, curling up with him and Gweld after the harsher training…but he mostly remembered the day the older Witchers moved them to Kaer Morhen for the Trials and for futher training – if they survived that was. 

Not many of them did, Geralt remembered bitterly. Only he, Eskel and Gweld had survived. The other boys didn’t even get to experience a day outside of the bastion before the Trials claimed their lives.

He turned around, frowning as he looked at the crumbled walls. He couldn’t remember if he ever told Jaskier about the bastion, about where the boys stayed and trained before the Trials…but it wasn’t really a happy memory after all. Geralt knew Jaskier would just look at him with those big blue eyes before wrapping his arms around him and murmuring how sorry he was that Geralt had to suffer so.

He tilted his head suddenly as he caught sight of something white in his peripheral, partially hidden in what was once a small corridor, but was now a mostly crumpled ruin of stone.

Cautiously, Geralt approached, shifting some of the fallen stone to reveal what he had caught sight of. Sighing, Geralt sunk to his knees when he uncovered the bones of what was once a small child. 

He closed his eyes, trying not to think of how scared this child must have been during the Sacking, to seeing some murderous peasant or soldier coming towards him, intent on killing him.

Geralt tilted his head, suddenly hearing something behind him – and he knew exactly what it was. 

Wraith.

The young Witcher hadn’t been buried, his remains must’ve been hidden from view when Vesemir had come along to properly see to the remains of the fallen, which, unfortunately, was the perfect environment for a wraith, or group of wraiths, to come along. 

He moved swiftly, standing and pulling his silver sword from the sheath on his back as he spun, cutting down the wraith as it screamed towards him. Geralt stood ready, listening carefully as his eyes darted across the deserted bastion, waiting for the others to reveal themselves.

They soon did, screeching as they flew down at him and Geralt turned and ducked and swiped with his sword, as though it was some sort of dance. 

“Of course you fucking find wraiths on a fucking walk!” Lambert’s voice yelled as he jumped into the fray, dispatching the wraiths. 

“Not my fault!” Geralt responded with a grunt.

“Yes, it is you bastard!” Lambert grinned back as he dispatched the last wraith. “You’re a bloody monster magnet, honestly.”

Geralt just rolled his eyes as he sheathed his sword, turning back to the pile of bones left forgotten.

“Ah, fuck,” Lambert muttered as he saw them. “Poor kid.”

“Mm,” Geralt hummed in agreement. “Help me bury him?”

“Yeah,” Lambert sighed as he sheathed his own sword and knelt beside Geralt, looking over the bleached bones sadly. “Body must’ve been hidden under the debris when Vesemir came around, probably only became exposed these last couple of years…and I doubt the old man’s been back here to check.”

“Don’t think Vesemir has come back since he took care of the bodies,” Geralt responded quietly as they worked at digging a hole before placing the remains carefully inside. 

They both knelt beside the grave once they had filled it again.

“Rest easy, kid,” Lambert muttered as he stabbed the marker into the grave. “You escaped a shitty life.”

Geralt sighed as he got to his feet, with Lambert soon joining him. They silently headed back to the Keep, not quite knowing what to say about what just happened. They both clambered through the hole in the wall and headed towards the training yard, when Geralt stopped a small distance away, just watching as Aiden taught Ciri. Lambert paused beside him, watching as well. Geralt glanced at him, seeing the soft, fond look that he had never seen on his brother’s face before, directed at the Cat. 

Geralt swallowed the painful lump in his throat, heart feeling like it was being constricted. He knew what that look was.

“You love him, don’t you?” Geralt asked, just quietly enough for Lambert to hear.

Lambert startled at that. “W-Wait…uh…what?”

Geralt shook his head, an ache tearing at his chest, reminding him of what he was missing…of who he was missing.

“I can tell, Lambert,” Geralt murmured, turning to face his little brother. “You should tell him if you haven’t already. Don’t make the same mistake I did and leave it too late…when you might not get another chance to tell him.”

“Geralt…” Lambert said weakly but Geralt just shook his head, giving a sad smile.

“Just tell him, Lambert,” he murmured, before he trudged back towards the Keep, feeling as though he would never be whole again without Jaskier by his side.

 _Soon_ , Geralt couldn’t help but think desperately as the entered the large, silent Keep. _As soon as the snow melts, I’ll be there, Jaskier. I swear._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd another one down!! I stayed up until 1am to finish this for you, so enjoy ;)
> 
> Thanks for all the comments!  
> Let me know what you think!!


	23. Before the Gala

Jaskier stared out of the window in his comfortable cell, arms folded across his chest as he watched the servants bustling about below, getting the garden ready for the evening’s gala event. All the gardens were being tended to, with lanterns lining the paths, ready to be lit as soon as the sun begun to fall. He frowned as he watched them sweep the snow off of the paths, clearing it so the guests would be able to stroll around the gardens – which was covered in a fresh, soft covering of snow. The snow was still fresh and soft and crisp, as it was still so early, and it had not yet reached that slushy consistency or been around long enough that it was damp and dirty. 

All in all, it looked like a winter wonderland with the gentle covering of snow.

Emhyr had chosen the right time for this gala, Jaskier couldn’t help but think begrudgingly. The snow was still light enough to make travel possible, and it had not yet gotten unbearable cold, with of course the snow still fresh enough to look appealing before the bitterness and grumpiness came of being cooped up inside as the snow got heavier and the days got bitterly cold to venture outside. 

Jaskier had always hated Winter, even as he spent them in courts sleeping in warm, soft beds with warm, soft company and having an abundance of delicious, warm foods to choose from. He had only stopped hating Winter once he got to Kaer Morhen really.

Sure, they spent quite a bit of time cooped up inside with each other, but it was comfortable and _homey_ in such a way that Jaskier had never experienced before. It was much better sitting by the fire with Lambert’s terrible home-brewed vodka as they traded stories with the smell of Vesemir’s hearty stew lingering in the air.

Sighing heavily, Jaskier turned away from the window, heart heavy with wistful yearning as he thought of Kaer Morhen and how much he longed to be there within its crumbling walls, filled with memories and history. 

He sat down heavily on the bed, sighing once more as he ran his fingers through his tousled hair, grimacing as he tugged at knots within the growing locks. Scowling, he pulled his fingers through the knots, wincing slightly as they tugged against his scalp – though the pain was slightly grounding and distracted him of his thoughts and longing for Winter at Kaer Morhen with Geralt. 

His gaze was caught by the leather bound notebook sitting on the bedside table and he reached out to grab it, pulling it in close as he ran his fingers across the cover. He flicked through the pages, smiling sadly as he caught sight of his own scribbled words and lyrics, of stories and started ballads about Geralt, Eskel, Lambert and Vesemir.

It had been oddly soothing to write about them and he didn’t feel so alone and so trapped as he did so, feeling like his Witchers were near to him.

He paused on a page, skimming over his loopy, scrawled writing and re-read the song he had written for Eskel and his ever faithful Lil Bleater. It wasn’t one he’d sing at inns and in courts, but one he’d keep for Kaer Morhen, to sing just for the Witchers, to see the ever so humble Eskel duck his head at the song. 

The sweet, kind Witcher deserved every kind word sung and spoken about him. They all did of course, and while they acted embarrassed or uncertain about it, Jaskier would continue to say what is needed, to make them believe it.

So he wrote all he could in this book for them, to show them that he was always thinking of him – though he wasn’t always able to write when he wanted to. It seemed that Emhyr wanted him distracted, with Jon always in and out to chat with him or to keep him company…even Cahir was usually around, though that made Jaskier tense as anything, waiting for the commander to try something – but the commander had been rather _pleasant_ and calm and hadn't been his usual creepy self. Usually he’d bring a gwent deck or he’d take Jaskier out to the stables so he could tend to Buttercup.

He’d even spent a day sitting in Emhyr’s office, awkwardly sitting in the corner with a book of Nilfgaardian stories pressed into his hands with the order to remain quiet. That was when he had learnt about the gala and that he was expected to perform at it.

Jaskier knew that, for whatever reason, they didn’t want him to be left alone for too long. He just didn’t know whether it was to stop him from trying to figure out a way to escape or if they were concerned about losing him after his recent breakdown, which Jon had been worried about. 

Jaskier just shook his head, huffing a small, bitter laugh. They weren’t worried about him – well, not including Jon…he knew that Jon worried – but Emhyr was concerned about losing the one bargaining chip he had for Ciri. 

But still, it wasn’t so daunting now that he wasn’t left alone to his thoughts, of the memories of that terrifying vision he had been shown – even the gwent game, as silent as it was, with Cahir was beginning to become a welcome distraction from the anxious burdened thoughts that tended to drift about his mind when he was left alone with only his thoughts for company.

He shut the book and placed it aside, eyes fixed upon the door as it opened. Jaskier barely bit back a huffed sigh when Mererid walked in, followed by his usual retinue of servants who came with him when it was time to bathe and get Jaskier ready. 

“That time already?” Jaskier asked lightly as he pushed himself to his feet. A rather frazzled looking Mererid smirked slightly at him before nodding, looking exhausted.

“Yes, the gentleman will be bathed, shaved and readied for this evening,” Mererid informed him. Jaskier sighed and nodded, knowing that it was fruitless to argue back, so he just waited until the bath was filled before he walked over and allowed the servants to do their duties. 

Jaskier sat in the tub, wincing as he was practically scrubbed raw before sweet smelling oils were rubbed into his skin, to both scent his skin and to soften it. Jaskier turned his gaze to Mererid, who was frowning as he was presented with different outfits for Jaskier to wear for the gala.

“So, been busy organising everything, Mererid?” Jaskier asked, ignoring the servant scrubbed at his lower back a little too intently. 

Mererid gave a small snort of laughter at that, “Oh, far too busy,” he admitted, eyes still darting between the outfits. “The guest list had to be organized, the menu for the evening organized, the settings, the outfits…too much to do.”

“Sounds like it,” Jaskier winced as his hair was tugged.

“The gentleman knows what songs he will be singing?” Mererid questioned, pulling his gaze from the outfits to level a meaningful look at Jaskier, who sighed.

“Yes,” he replied, arching an eyebrow in response to the frazzled chamberlain. “The usual list I play in the court, minus my Witcher songs unless requested and approved by the Emperor…and not playing the overly dirty jigs until late in the evening when everyone is drunk.”

Mererid hummed at that, eyebrows knitted together with slight displeasure at that. 

“I agree with most of what you said,” Mererid said slowly, “but let’s see about those dirty jigs later, hmm? Oh, and no songs going against Nilfgaard.”

Jaskier shot Mererid an exasperated look at that. “I’m not a fool, Mererid, and I value my life. I would not sing any songs that puts Nilfgaard in a negative light. I know what I’m doing, I’ve played in many a court before.”

Mererid nodded once again, breathing out a sigh of relief as he focused back on the outfits.

“See that you do and I will be thankful,” Mererid responded, surprising Jaskier. “It will be one less thing for me to worry about this evening.”

“I’ll behave, Mererid, you have my word,” Jaskier told him, reaching up to touch the medallion hanging around the neck. He knew that he would be severely punished if he acted up and he didn’t want to test Emhyr’s patience or understanding if he acted up and embarrassed the Emperor in front of his guests. He knew that Emhyr wouldn’t be so benevolent if he embarrassed him in front of his guests…and he rather enjoyed being alive and in one piece. 

“Then I will be most grateful for that,” Mererid said, before he pointed to one of the outfits. “This one will do for this evening.”

Jaskier craned his head to see which one Mererid had chosen but just missed it when the servants quickly hurried away to get the outfit ready while placing the other two away.   
Once Jaskier was deemed scrubbed and clean, he was ordered from the bath and quickly dried down with further scents and oils being rubbed into his skin, which he accepted grudgingly, though the scents were none that he would have chosen – far too woody and musky for his liking. A towel was wrapped around his waist before he was directed to sit down in a nearby chair, a servant stepping up with the shaving gear.

“Must make sure you are cleanly groomed,” Mererid said airily as he walked about, looking over the scent bottles that had been brought. “We cannot have a scruffy looking Royal Bard representing Nilfgaard.”

Jaskier just remained silent at that, closing his eyes and exhaling through his nose as the servant begun to shave him. 

Once the servant was done, and Jaskier’s face had been wiped clean of any excess shaving soap, another servant came by to brush and style his drying hair, brushing the wispy fringe away from Jaskier’s eyes. He was soon ushered up from the seat so he could get dressed. Jaskier stood rigidly, still uncomfortable at being dressed by others – though he knew they didn’t really care for seeing him naked, just going about their duties. It still didn’t make it any less awkward for the bard though, staring straight ahead as the dressers went about their business, moving and shifting his limbs to their liking, as though he was just a doll needing to be dressed.

When they finally stepped away, Jaskier managed to glance down to see what they had dressed him in – as they had moved too quickly for him to get a good like while they were dressing him. 

His doublet was a dark, royal blue colour with faint golden embroidery patterning the fabric – with the exception of the dark gold and royal blue stripes making up the slightly puffy sleeves just by his shoulders. The doublet was fitted rather closely to Jaskier’s build, extenuating his slightly slim waist and broader shoulders. The golden buttons were done up to almost his throat, though they remembered from last time not to do them all the way up, which exposed part of the silky white chemise with lace trim and just the smallest amount of his chest hair. 

The pants were just like the doublet, being dark, royal blue in colour with faint golden embroidery lining the fabric and tailored to show off Jaskier’s long, lean legs and strong thighs. 

It was an outfit that he would have chosen, Jaskier admitted to himself grudgingly, annoyed that he had gotten this outfit as a captive. 

“Excellent,” Mererid said, pleased, as he eyed Jaskier. “This outfit suits the gentleman perfectly. Perfect for the Royal Bard.”

Jaskier smiled thinly and emotionlessly at that, hating the reminder that he was now practically owned by Nilfgaard.

“And the boots,” Mererid stated suddenly, turning around. “Where are the boots?” 

Jaskier frowned, glancing at his usual pair which were on the floor by the foot of the bed where he had kicked them off the night before. 

“What’s wrong with mine?” Jaskier asked, somewhat defensively. Those boots had gotten him through years of trudging about after Geralt. He had spent quite a small fortune on them in order for them to be properly made to last the years and the miles he walked.

“They are a little…old and worn,” Mererid said, glancing at Jaskier’s boots himself with the smallest scrunch of his nose as he stared at the weathered leathered boots. Jaskier barely kept from tensing at that with indignation. He knew his boots had seen better days and the leather was a bit scuffed here and there from all of the travels, all of the running and stumbling away from monsters and up hills and down hills, but they were _his_.

Jaskier reached up to shift the medallion, from where it had been trapped against his chest by the chemise and fitted doublet. He tucked it between his chemise and doublet, knowing that it wouldn’t do well to have it on display at the gala, especially under Emhyr’s disapproving glare, but he couldn’t have it pressing so firmly against his chest for the whole night either, which was why he put in between the chemise and the doublet. Hidden from the view, but he could still feel its comforting weight against him. 

The servant came hurrying in carrying a pair of boots, face pink with exertion as she hurried in announcing, “Found them!” 

Mererid nodded, gesturing to Jaskier, who sat down at his pointed look. He barely quelled his displeased look at the new, shiny pair of calf boots that were now being forced onto his feet. The leather was supple and soft, yet still had that new slight shine. The boots came up to Jaskier’s mid-calf and were fitted snuggly around his calves. 

“Good, I sized you up correctly,” Mererid said with a satisfied nod as he examined the boots fitted snuggly around Jaskier’s calves. Jaskier resisted the urge to squirm uncomfortably at that, knowing that Mererid had somehow correctly guessed his foot size, watching instead as the fussy chamberlain sent the rest of the servants away before he turned to Jaskier.

“I will come to collect you shortly to escort you to the main hall,” Mererid informed him. “Do not mess up your outfit.”

“I won’t,” Jaskier sighed as he sat back down, wanting so dearly to roll his eyes – but Mererid didn’t deserve that. The man was under stress trying to get everything right so that _he_ wasn’t punished himself. “I’ll just tune the lute, go over the songs.”

Mererid nodded, relief flooding the man’s rounded face before he turned and left, leaving Jaskier to his lonesome once again. 

Jaskier sighed, glancing at the lute case, before getting to his feet and walking over to the vanity, ignoring the instrument for now. It wasn’t _his_ lute. It was still a fine instrument, but it wasn’t his and it was a reminder of why he was here. 

Jaskier leaned over the wooden vanity, peering into the mirror at his reflection and grimacing at his hair, which had been brushed down and styled neatly. He ran his hand through his hair, tousling the dark brown locks so it was artfully messy. He did grimace as he tugged at the straggly bits of hair that were growing over the top of his ears. 

He was overdue for a trim, he realised with a snort. Usually he’d stop in a town every month or so to get it neatened, or if they were out camping, Geralt would grow tired of his whinging and would help him to trim the bits that he couldn’t reach himself. Jaskier always returned the favour – though he was loathe to cut Geralt’s gorgeous white hair (especially when it was clean and shining) – especially when some monster bits got tangled deep within those white strands, which required careful cutting out. Geralt would have just hacked the chunk of hair off his head, but Jaskier refused to let him do that, having been horrified the first time he witnessed it and seeing the jagged patch of hair that Geralt had left behind in its wake. Jaskier always took care to cut the mangled mess out so it wouldn’t leave Geralt with a bald patch, and that it wouldn’t be obvious that he was missing a chunk of hair. 

Grumbling under his breath, Jaskier just did his best to tuck the slightly unruly strands behind his ears instead, hiding it from view and making his hairstyle look less unruly and scruffy – now it was just artfully and dashingly messy instead.

Once he was satisfied, he straightened up and headed back towards the bed, wincing at the slight tightness of the new boots. It wasn’t too bad – just that new boot and not-worn-in-yet feeling. Jaskier sat down heavily upon the bed, a heavy exhale escaping his lips as his gaze fell upon the lute case. 

Well, Jaskier thought heavily, he should get the lute ready so he was prepared for when Mererid came to collect him. 

He had just finished going over one of the songs when Mererid walked in, looking flustered. 

“Come now,” Mererid told him. “We must get you downstairs and ready for the guests.”

Jaskier bit back a sigh, placing the lute back in its case and locking it securely before he stood up, slinging the case over his shoulder. Mererid pursed his lips as he looked over Jaskier as the bard approached.

“What did you do to your hair?” Mererid asked, sighing as though dealing with an unruly child.

“Made it better,” Jaskier retorted with a faux cheeky grin. “Gotta look dashing, Mererid, not like some prissy lordling.” 

Mererid’s brows knitted together in a brow, his lips pressed thin together in displeasure at Jaskier’s comment. 

“Mmm, I suppose so,” was all Mererid said, eyeing Jaskier critically for a moment more before shaking his head, out of time to really do anything. “Come with me.” 

Jaskier hoisted the lute case higher up on his shoulder, touching Geralt’s medallion briefly and taking in a steeling breath, before he followed Mererid with his usual guard goon squad falling into step around them. 

He followed Mererid into the main hall, glancing about at the dressed tables lining the hall, leaving a large clear space for dancing in front of the dais that Emhyr’s table was upon. Emhyr was standing upon the dais, talking to Fringilla and Cahir. He turned as Mererid and Jaskier approached. Fringilla scowled at Jaskier with disgust, turning away from him and looking back to Cahir, to find he was also staring at Jaskier. 

“Well, he certainly looks the part,” Emhyr drawled as he eyed off the outfit Jaskier was wearing. “Does he not, Cahir?”

“He looks like a Royal Bard, your Majesty,” Cahir agreed, eyes still fixed on Jaskier, who shuffled uncomfortably under the unerring stare. 

“Leave us,” Emhyr ordered Cahir and Fringilla, eyes still fixed on Jaskier. “Cahir, why don’t you go and greet your father? Fringilla, go check things out.”

They both bowed – though Fringilla very reluctantly – before they headed off. Emhyr stepped off the dais, walking to stand in front of Jaskier, who clutched at the lute case strap tighter.

“Now,” Emhyr said, voice low and threatening as his cold brown eyes bored into Jaskier’s. “We need to discuss a few rules for tonight, Jaskier.”

Jaskier gave a curt nod, heart pounding in his chest. He knew that this was coming, that Emhyr would remind him of what the punishments were, of what he could lose, if he messed up. 

“Now, you should know that I expect you to behave, Bard,” Emhyr warned him. “No dumbass, sassy comments. No attempts to escape. No attempts to get persuade anyone to help you escape. No singing any Witcher songs unless you get my permission. You will not tell anyone about Ciri or my plans.”

“I wouldn’t,” Jaskier whispered, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t risk Ciri.”

Emhyr just stared at him intently, eyes darting across the bard’s distressed face. “I know you won’t,” he said finally. “Though, when it comes to all of my other warnings, I am not so sure. That is why I am warning you now…and to remind you that the punishment will be most _severe_ if you attempt anything foolish or embarrass me in any way.” 

Jaskier barely repressed the cold shiver that wanted to make its way down his spine at the Emperor’s threat and cold, warning gaze.

“I-I understand,” Jaskier acceded quietly, averting his eyes. 

Emhyr nodded curtly. “Good. Follow me.”

Jaskier quietly followed Emhyr up onto the dais and towards the right corner, just near the edge of the dais to be able to be seen by the audience yet still close to the main table.

“You will be performing here,” Emhyr instructed him, turning to face Jaskier once more. “That way I can keep an eye on you.”

“No crowd mingling then?” Jaskier tried to joke weakly but was quickly quelled with a pointed look from Emhyr.

“Not a chance,” Emhyr told him, a glint within his eye as he waved a guard forward. Jaskier took a step back when he realised that the guard was holding a shackle…which was attached to a chain leading to a nearby pillar. He swallowed deeply as he looked back to Emhyr.

“T-That won’t be necessary, will it?” Jaskier asked weakly, glancing at the shackle. 

“It will stop you attempting anything foolish,” Emhyr stated, raising an eyebrow as he stared at Jaskier. “You haven’t proven yourself trustworthy yet, Jaskier. You’ve tried to run, you’re probably trying to figure out how to use this night as a cover to escape…and I will not take that risk…or the risk of one of these lords coming tonight, yet who secretly wish to overthrow me, attempting to steal you as blackmail or something.”

Jaskier bit his lip to stop the sassy reply that wanted to come out at that, but also to swallow the fear that bubbled in his throat from the thought of someone else using him as blackmail, to try and cage him and use him. 

He knew Emhyr’s motives. He knew that Emhyr just wanted to use him to get to Ciri and then use him to get Ciri to co-operate…but he didn’t know any of the other Lords motives if they decided to grab him. 

With a deep swallow, Jaskier gave the smallest of nods, which Emhyr returned, pleased.

“Good,” he said, hand on Jaskier’s shoulder to pull him forward slightly. “You’ll still have enough chain to move around with and to sit down. It’s just to keep you from going too far.”

“Sure,” Jaskier said roughly, trying not to flinch as the shackle was fixed around his ankle atop of his boot. 

“Hmm,” Emhyr hummed curiously as he glanced at Mererid who stood nearby. “Perhaps you can behave after all, Jaskier.”

Jaskier couldn’t help but scowl at that, which just made Emhyr smirk.

“Ah, there’s the sassy bard,” Emhyr chuckled before sighing as he looked towards the large double doors. “Gods, I hate galas,” he muttered under his breath, startling a small laugh from Jaskier who hadn’t expected to hear that from the Emperor of Nilfgaard, before Emhyr turned his gaze back to him. “Mererid will tell you when to start playing, after all of the guests are announced. He will bring you something to eat and drink later on during the evening, but if you need more water, just signal for Mererid or a servant if he is not around. Can’t have your throat getting all dry when you need to sing for us, hmm?”

“Uh, yes, t-thank you,” Jaskier stammered, uncertain of what to say. Emhyr was content with that answer though, nodding once more before he wandered off with Mererid close behind. Jaskier swallowed, clutching at the strap of his lute case once more before sighing and slipping the lute case off of his shoulder and setting it on the floor, getting everything ready.

Usually he’d loved performing, would be so full of adrenaline and excitement beforehand, unable to wait to perform…but now, he just wished the night was over before it had even begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo sorry it's taken longer than usual, but just been so busy and just haven't had the time or energy or motivation to really write...  
> Had to also break the gala chapter up as it was getting far too long with all I have planned for it ;)  
> Also, hoping I got the snow descriptions right with the different stages as I have actually never seen snow in real life...
> 
> Thanks for all the comments!  
> Let me know what you think!


	24. Gala

Jaskier frowned to himself as he absently tuned the lute sitting across his midsection, though his eyes remained upon the large double doors leading into the hall, which had been thrown open as the servants situated themselves in their designated places. 

He stilled his fingers, cutting short any music, at pointed look from Mererid as the chamberlain glanced towards the court crier who was standing by the door, scroll in hand, ready to announce the guests as they arrived. Sighing, Jaskier shifted the lute so it was hanging behind his shoulder now, ready to be pulled across his chest to play at Mererid’s word, glancing at Emhyr as he came to sit in his throne – which his servants had moved to the front of the dais – so he could look down upon his guests as they came before him. 

Jaskier turned his attention back to the doors as the crier announced the first guest. He did his best to keep the bored expression off of his face as the guests were announced, barely keeping from grimacing or rolling his eyes as he watched the guests come forward to greet Emhyr, bowing and simpering before him. 

He always hated this part of galas, the pomp and the pretend as the guests tried so very hard to suck up to their hosts, giggling and fluttering eye lashes or laughing along to horribly stupid jokes or just going overboard with compliments. 

Jaskier did his best to pull his gaze away from that sight, before his face did something he couldn’t control, and cast his gaze across the hall instead. Servants milled about, making sure drinks were filled, even for the guests waiting to greet the Emperor. He spotted Jon standing off to the side, red curls pulled back into a low bun at the back of his neck, keeping his face free of curls, sipping from a goblet as he watched the guests himself – though Cahir soon came to join him, looking displeased about something. Jon immediately turned to Cahir, looking concerned as he placed a hand on Cahir’s arm, murmuring quietly to him. Cahir just sighed and nodded, looking weary. 

Jaskier tilted his head slightly as he watched them. Something was going on there, but any further thought about what was going on with Cahir was pushed aside when the next guest was announced, catching Jaskier’s complete focus.

“Lord and Lady Travers of Cidaris, with the famed troubadour, Valdo Marx!”

Jaskier barely held back a scowl as he watched Valdo, his old nemesis from Oxenfurt, sauntering down the hall towards Emhyr, following by two very overly dressed, rather rotund Royalty. Valdo had always sneered as he looked down at Jaskier as they had met over the years, looking down upon Jaskier for remaining a travelling bard, following a Witcher and sleeping rough, as Valdo himself served in a comfortable Cidaris court, to one of the Lords of Cidaris who served their King. 

Valdo smirked as he caught sight of Jaskier standing there at the corner of the dais, smugness pulling at the man’s features.

He had gotten old, Jaskier couldn’t help but think somewhat smugly as he stared back at the troubadour. Valdo’s shoulder length, dark brown hair and trimmed goatee were now streaked with grey, with heavier wrinkles appearing at the corner of the man’s eyes, mouth and forehead. 

“Your Majesty,” the Lord simpered as he bowed down low before Emhyr. “It is my utmost pleasure to represent Cidaris, part of your strong Empire, here tonight.”

Emhyr just lifted an eyebrow, staring at the man.

“May I introduce my lovely wife, Matilda,” the Lord said as he straightened, holding his pudgy hand out for his wife, who curtsied down low, bowing her head slightly so she could flutter her eyelashes at Emhyr, who just nodded in return, “and our troubadour, the talented and renowned Valdo Marx, who have I brought to play for our most esteemed majesty.”

“I already have a Royal Bard,” Emhyr stated coolly, glancing at Jaskier.

“Oh, of course, your Majesty,” the Lord simpered, “but you have not heard our Valdo’s beautiful music.”

“I have not heard of your bard,” Emhyr said, voice clipped with annoyance. “Nilfgaard’s Royal Bard however, is known throughout the Continent. As…kind as your offer is, Jaskier is more than capable as he is renowned throughout the Continent for his songs.” 

The Lord stammered a reply before Emhyr waved him away. Emhyr glanced over at Jaskier as the Lord hurried away with his wife and Valdo close behind. Noting that there were currently no new guests to greet, Emhyr stood and walked over to Jaskier.

“I take it you know that bard?” Emhyr asked quietly, eyeing off the snooty looking Valdo Marx.

“Unfortunately,” Jaskier muttered with displeasure. “We were schoolmates at Oxenfurt. He stole my compositions before exams and passed them off as his own. He also likes to look down at me because he has a permanent court position and I choose to travel the Continent.”

“Hm,” Emhyr hummed at that, frowning at Marx. 

“He also likes to say that I’m ‘a talentless wastrel who panders to the taste of the masses’,” Jaskier said bitterly, shaking his head. 

“Well, I’ve never heard of him nor any of the songs he has come up with if that is anything to go by,” Emhyr stated, surprising Jaskier. “However, I do need to ask…is the whole trying to insult your host by alluding that the host’s bard is not as good as their own a common thing?”

“Surprisingly so,” Jaskier told him with a small nod, glancing at Marx, who was glaring back at him as he saw Jaskier speaking so candidly with the Emperor. “However, it can be taken in two ways. It can be meant as an insult to you and your taste, done in a subtle way, or it can be done in a way to try and impress you, to loan you their servants or musicians or painters – whatever they have on hand really.”

“Well, I’m going to take that one as an insult,” Emhyr muttered under his breath as he turned to head back to his throne. Jaskier paused for a moment, frowning down at his lute as he considered the rather simple, easy-going conversation he had just had with the Emperor. 

Obviously seeing Marx there had gotten him out of balance, not even realising that he should have been on guard when Emhyr had approached so casually. 

“Well, well, if it isn’t Jaskier.” Jaskier stiffened at the drawl, lifting his head to stare at Valdo Marx, who stood in front of him – though a head shorter thanks to the dais Jaskier was standing upon – with his arms folded across as his chest, still managing to look upon Jaskier with disdain. 

“Marx,” Jaskier just responded coolly, eyes glancing about to see Jon staring at him from near the side wall, frowning in concern as he stared at Marx before he turned to murmur something to Cahir, getting the commander to watch also. “Never expected to see you here.”

“Nor you,” Marx drawled, eyeing Jaskier off. “Now, how did some second rate bard, who has spent _years_ wandering around the dirt and the wilderness with some _beast_ , get a position in the Nilfgaardian court?”

Jaskier bristled at that, barely keeping from snarling at the pompous prick in front of him.

“Geralt is not a beast,” Jaskier hissed at him before his lips twisted into sharp, knowing grin. “You’re trying to deflect,” Jaskier hummed knowingly watching as Marx’s eyes narrowed. “All of the insults and disdain…but you’re truly jealous, aren’t you, Valdo?”

Valdo scoffed, “Of you? Please.”

“As the Emperor said…what song of yours is known, Valdo?” Jaskier asked, cocking his head to the side. “You may say that I pander to the masses, but you know what, I enjoy it. I actually enjoy composing and singing songs and ballads that the people will enjoy, not for the sake of becoming famous, of playing in courts.”

“And that is why you’ll never amount to anything, Pankratz,” Valdo spat. “You’ll grow old and obsolete.”

“Oh-ho-ho, going on about age now, are we?” Jaskier grinned, knowing that he was getting under Valdo’s skin – which was always a favourite past time of his, especially since Valdo spent so much time treating him with such disdain and trying to put him down at every turn and opportunity. “I’m afraid that you will grow old long before I will…I mean, those greys are really starting to come in there, Valdo.”

Valdo sneered at him. “Yes, I did realise that you have not aged,” he scowled. “Some elf blood in there that you’re hiding, Pankratz? Some half breed?”

“Oh, you wish, my dear,” Jaskier chortled, knowing what Valdo was thinking. If Valdo could persuade others that he was an elf, some half breed, then Jaskier would practically be black-listed by those close-minded…not that Jaskier would really care about that. He didn’t want to play for those sorts of Lords and Kings anyway – they’d been the ones to sneer at Geralt, to treat him as though he was just a speck of dirt on their shiny, expensive shoes. 

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier looked up, smiling at Jon as the medic approached, giving Valdo a suspicious glance as he did so.

“Jon,” Jaskier greeted with a smile. “Like the hair.”

Jon chuckled at that, reaching up to touch the small bun of curls at the base of his neck. 

“Not sure what I think of it myself,” Jon answered with a lopsided grin. Valdo just glared back at the medic, who was ignoring him. 

“We were talking here,” Valdo snapped at him. Jon finally looked to him, almost bored.

“Yes, looked like such a friendly conversation,” Jon drawled, hearing Jaskier give a small snort of laughter. Valdo bristled at that, drawing himself up, though Jon was unconcerned by that. He could see that the pompous bastard was all bark and no bite. 

“And who are you to interrupt?” Valdo demanded to know.

“Name’s Jon,” Jon said simply, eyeing off the pompous troubadour. “I’m the Royal Healer, here on the Emperor’s orders, watching over the wellbeing of one of my charges.”

Valdo paled slightly at that as he stared at Jon in disbelief. Jaskier also stared at the medic, though he was more impressed with the usually soft spoken medic. 

“Go on now,” Jon shooed the troubadour away nonchalantly. “You’re bothering my charge…and the Emperor will not be pleased to see you bothering his Royal Bard.”

Valdo glanced at Jaskier once more, scowl settling upon his face before he turned and stormed off.

“Seems like a nice guy,” Jon said lightly as he looked back to Jaskier, who laughed softly at that.

“Mm,” Jaskier chuckled. “He’s an acquired taste…that not many like.”

“I can see why,” Jon muttered, glancing over his shoulder at the troubadour. “Are you okay though? He didn’t upset you?”

“Nah,” Jaskier said, waving his hand. “What he said would have once bothered me when I was still at Oxenfurt…but I’ve learnt that he’s full of shit and not to take anything he says to heart, that he’s just a prick.”

Jon nodded, still frowning. He didn’t like that Valdo Marx guy one bit. 

“What did he say to you?” 

“That I’m a talentless hack that panders to the masses, that I have no talent and will be obsolete. Oh, and he accused me of being of elf descent, or a half breed, he couldn’t decide which,” Jaskier listed with an uncaring shrug. Jon startled at that, surprised that Marx would accuse Jaskier of such a thing as it was quite a serious accusation, especially when it came to one’s parentage – even more so when it came to elvish blood. 

“Didn’t tell him you were cursed?”

“Not a chance,” Jaskier said in disbelief. “Don’t need him trying to find a sorceress to bestow the same thing on him.” Jaskier shuddered at the horrifying thought. “Can you imagine being stuck with him for decades or centuries to come?”

Jon shook his head at that. One run in with that stuck up prick was enough for Jon.

“You’re okay though?” Jon questioned softly, looking back to Jaskier, who just smiled weakly and nodded.

“Yes, Jon, I’m okay,” Jaskier reassured him before he shifted his foot, causing the shackle chain to shift and catch, reminding him that it was there. “Luckily he didn’t see this,” Jaskier muttered bitterly, kicking the chain behind him once again. “Never would have heard the end of that.”

Jon directed a sad smile up at Jaskier, not really having the words to reassure him. 

“Jaskier!” 

Mererid came hurrying towards him, looking flustered. 

“Mererid,” Jaskier greeted, noting how flustered and run ragged the chamberlain looked. 

“It’s time,” Mererid informed him as he paused in front of the dais, using this moment to dab at his sweaty brow. “Please do as discussed, as you promised.”

“I gave my word, Mererid,” Jaskier reassured, feeling slightly sorry for the overrun chamberlain. “I’ll behave.”

Mererid breathed out a sigh of relief, nodding, as Jaskier grabbed the lute from where it was hanging across his back, shifting it to hold in front of his body. Jaskier rolled his shoulders as Mererid signalled the court crier to announce Jaskier.

Jaskier bowed down with a flourish once he was announced, fixing a bright smile upon his face as he straightened up, glancing to Emhyr, who was watching him from over the top of his wine goblet. 

Taking in a deep breath, and seeing all eager eyes on him, Jaskier took in a deep breath, beginning to strum a cheery tune before the first words of the song left his lips.

As he sang, Jaskier couldn’t help but cast his gaze across the crowded hall, darting over the heads of all the guests staring at him. 

He knew that he wasn’t there…yet Jaskier couldn’t help but look out for those golden eyes that would often be lurking in a shadowed corner, always fixed upon Jaskier. 

Jaskier’s heart ached horribly knowing that Geralt wasn’t there like he had always been, lurking in the corner, watching over him to make sure he wasn’t hassled. 

Closing his eyes, Jaskier sang loudly and clearly, imagining that Geralt was there, watching over him with a fond look within those burning golden eyes, with that smallest, barely there smile pulling at the corner of his lips. 

A while later, Mererid signalled for Jaskier to stop after he finished his current song. Chest heaving with exertion and skin damp with perspiration from performing, Jaskier bowed with a flourish once more, promising more songs after a break at the chorus of disappointed murmurs. 

Jaskier exhaled softly as he turned to put the lute into the case before he sunk down to sit beside the case, needing to catch his breath. Mererid walked over, looking relieved.

“You have performed admirably,” Mererid praised. “Excellent song choices. You truly are worthy of being Nilfgaard’s Royal Bard.”

Jaskier did his best not to grimace at that.

“Here,” Mererid said, gesturing for two servants to come over. “Food and drink for your break, which is very well deserved. The Emperor is pleased with you. All of the Lords and guests have been singing your praises.”

Jaskier bowed his head so he didn’t have to try and figure out the words to say, especially when the ones he wanted to say sat so bitterly on his tongue. So instead he nodded, smiling weakly – though it came out as more of a grimace – before accepting the food and drink offered to him. 

Sighing, Jaskier leaned back against the pillar behind him, folding his shackled foot underneath the calf of his other leg, as he rested the plate upon his lap. He idly tore at the bread, eating bits and pieces as he watched over the gala, watching as everyone mingled and laughed, his gaze being drawn to those who were loud and boisterous, beginning arguments. 

His attention was drawn as a hushed silence fell over the gala as the doors opened once more and a small group walked in. Jaskier craned his neck curiously, trying to catch a glimpse of who had made the crowd go silent. 

To his left, Emhyr had stood up from behind his table and rounded it, coming to the front of the dais.

“Filavandrel!” Emhyr greeted, sounding the most enthused he had all night. Jaskier blinked in surprise at that, sitting up straighter to see that it certainly was Filavandrel approaching. “I am surprised you came, but I am pleased that you accepted my invitation.”

Filavandrel bowed his head respectfully. “How could I refuse?” he said graciously, before startling as he glanced to the side and caught sight of Jaskier just sitting to the side of the dais. 

Emhyr caught his gaze, following it to Jaskier. “Do you know him?” he asked curiously as he looked back to Filavandrel, seeing his ginger haired second next to him scowling slightly at Jaskier, as the young, dark skinned Elven boy hiding slightly behind her looked about in confusion.

“Ah, yes,” Filavandrel admitted, tearing his eyes away from Jaskier. “We’ve met…quite a long while ago.”

Emhyr hummed low in his throat, intrigued by that information before he nodded. 

“Well, he is my Royal Bard now,” he informed them before waving a hand. “Go, get some food, mingle…I will speak to you later.”

“Of course,” Filavandrel inclined his head once again.

Jaskier took a sip of water as he watched them speak, the conversation rising to dull roar once more once the guests realised that the Elves were invited guests of the Emperor himself. 

He set the mug of water aside as he watched Filavandrel speak to some of his group, sending them off into the crowd before he, Toruviel and a young Elf came his way.

“Filavandrel,” Jaskier greeted respectfully with a small smile, suddenly feeling reminiscent at the sight of the Elf…who had made up his and Geralt’s first adventure together. “It’s been a while.”

“That it has,” Filavandrel mused, head tilted slightly as he regarded Jaskier as though trying to puzzle something out. 

“You!” Toruviel hissed, glaring at him.

“Toruviel,” Jaskier greeted smoothly. “Still as fierce and fearsome as ever I see.”

The young teenaged Elf looked at him, confused, but still remained slightly hidden behind Toruviel. 

“You wrote that song about us!” she spat at him. 

“Ah, yes,” Jaskier murmured as he leaned back against the pillar once again. “I take it you didn’t like it?”

“You made us appear weak,” Filavandrel stated coldly.

“Not entirely my intention,” Jaskier tried to explain. “I do admit, part of that song was written in complete selfishness…but I also did it to protect you.”

“How?” demanded Filavandrel.

“If the peasants in Posada learnt that you hadn’t been defeated by Geralt, they would have come after you themselves,” Jaskier explained matter-of-factly. “By saying that you had been defeated, that you had retreated, that would have made them feel confident, cocky, like they had won…and they wouldn’t come after you, believing you had already been chased off.”

“You didn’t have to include us at all,” Filavandrel pointed out.

Jaskier smiled apologetically at that. “That was part of my own selfishness,” he murmured. “I wanted to change the peoples’ opinion on Geralt, so that they could see that he wasn’t a butcher, wasn’t a murderer. I wanted to make a ballad that people would sing, that would paint Geralt as the hero I knew him to be – especially after I saw how he reacted with you. Respect doesn’t make history after all,” he murmured sadly.

“No it does not,” Filavandrel agreed bitterly. 

“I am glad to see you are doing well,” Jaskier told them with a small, truthful smile. “It’s good to see you’ve grown stronger, that you’ve fought back against extinction.”

“There was no other choice,” Toruviel muttered, which Jaskier nodded in agreement with, his eyes straying to the young Elf partially hidden behind her once again.

There was something about him, as though Jaskier knew him somehow.

Finally, it clicked.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Dara, would you?” Jaskier asked gently, looking at the young Elf. Dara blinked in shock, looking to Toruviel who snarled slightly, hiding him behind her.

“How do you know?” she demanded to know as Filavandrel frowned at him.

“Ah, we have a…mutual friend,” Jaskier said carefully, leaning forward slightly. “You helped her to escape, helped her survive when she was lost and alone.”

Dara’s eyes widened at that, mouth opening slightly in shock as he edged around Toruviel, creeping closer to the dais and Jaskier as he glanced back nervously at Emhyr, who was deep in conversation.

“Y-You know her?” Dara breathed, shocked. “I-Is she okay?”

“Yes,” Jaskier reassured him. “She’s safe and is doing well. She thought about you quite a lot,” he added as he saw relief flood Dara’s face, though Toruviel and Filavandrel just looked confused, not knowing who they were speaking about. “She told me how much she regretted how you two parted and that she just hoped you were safe.”

“I am,” Dara said, glancing at Filavandrel, who smiled slightly at the young Elf.

“Well, I’m sure she’ll be glad to hear that…when…when I see her next,” Jaskier broke off weakly.

“She’s not here?”

“No, Nilfgaard hasn’t found her yet,” Jaskier smiled ruefully, “which is why I’m here.”

“Yes,” Filavandrel hummed suddenly, eyes landing on the lute lying within the open case. “Did you lose the lute I gave you?”

“No,” Jaskier said, somewhat bitterly. “They left it behind when they captured me.”

“Captured you?” Toruviel asked, glancing to Filavandrel. Jaskier shifted his leg, revealing the shackle attached to his ankle.

“I’m not here by choice,” he told them, eyes fixed firmly on them. “I’m here so they can use me as blackmail against Geralt.”

The Elves were silent at that, unsure of what to say. 

“There is nothing we can do, Bard,” Filavandrel said quietly a few moments later.

“I know,” Jaskier sighed tiredly, resting his head back against the pillar. “You’re allied with Nilfgaard. I get it. They’re helping you take back what was yours and you can’t risk that.”

Toruviel and Filavandrel exchanged looks at that, but ultimately, Jaskier had gotten it correct. There was nothing they could do without risking everything they had fought for.

“Your Witcher,” Toruviel said quietly, glancing at Emhyr. “Will he not come for you?”

Jaskier smiled tiredly at her. “He’ll try, oh I know he’ll try.”

“Well, take heart then, Bard,” Filavandrel said, eyes fixed upon the dejected looking bard. “He tried to save your life before he even knew you, so I doubt he’ll give up on you…especially with those songs you’ve written about him.”

Jaskier smiled sadly at that, nodding to them, before sighing as he watched them walk away. He closed his eyes for a moment, doing his best to block out the dull roar of conversation echoing around him. Seeing Filavandrel made him remember seeing Geralt for the first time in Posada and having that first adventure with him. It made Jaskier realise just how much their relationship had changed from that first day…from gut punches, glares and grunts to hugs, soft words and companionship.

Jaskier swallowed thickly, tears suddenly springing unbidden to flood his eyes.

Fuck how he missed Geralt. How he wanted to be with him once more.

He blinked open his eyes, blinking away the tears that blurred his vision, when he heard clipped footsteps approaching. Mererid was standing there, looking angered about something – and that was when Jaskier realised that Emhyr was no longer sitting at the table.

“What’s happened?” Jaskier asked, dread flooding his stomach as he suddenly went over every interaction he had, everything he had said and done, wondering if he had done something wrong.

“You just need to come with me,” Mererid murmured, though he gently squeezed Jaskier’s shoulder when he noticed the panic within the bard’s blue eyes, before he undid the ankle shackle and pulled the bard to his feet. He quickly ushered Jaskier from the dais and out of the main hall, into one of the side hallways, where Jaskier frowned when he heard muted yelling. 

He almost froze in shock when he saw Valdo Marx being held by two guards with Cahir, Jon and Emhyr standing across him, all looking different variants of displeased and angered. 

“W-What’s going on?” Jaskier asked as he cautiously approached, stopping next to Jon.

“He was caught exiting your room,” Cahir informed him, eyes narrowed as he glared at Marx. Jaskier immediately turned to Valdo, anger flooding through him.

“What the fuck did you take?” he hissed at his rival. He knew that the medallion was safe, could feel its comforting weight against his chest…but he knew Valdo…and he knew he was looking for something.

“Search him,” Emhyr ordered coldly, looking to Cahir. Cahir nodded, quickly patting Valdo down and searching through the complaining troubadour’s pockets until he paused, pulling out a leather notebook.

“You prick!” Jaskier snarled, immediately recognizing, going to lunge at him when Jon quickly wrapped a restraining arm around Jaskier’s mid-section. “You’re trying to steal my fucking compositions again!” 

“Liar!” Valdo snapped back. “That’s mine!”

Emhyr just held his hand out for the notebook, which Cahir immediately handed over, before he flipped through the pages. Already he could tell who the notebook belonged to, seeing scribbled stories and notes about Geralt of Rivia, along with Eskel and Lambert…but he had to be fair, just to double check to ensure he was correct so he didn't create any tensions between Nilfgaard and different Lords.

“Fine,” Emhyr stated, looking at the both of them. “I will read the title or a line of a story or song written in here and you will both tell me what it is about…and I will be able to determine who wrote this.”

“Fine,” Jaskier said, glaring at Valdo.

“ _Angry at life, yet his brothers he would not trade_ ,” Emhyr read out before looking at Valdo, who faltered.

“It’s, uh, about a man who lost everything,” Valdo tried.

“It’s about Lambert,” Jaskier growled, flashing eyes fixed firmly on Valdo. “Youngest of the surviving Wolf Witchers.”

Emhyr nodded, having spotted Lambert’s name scrawled in the margins of the song, before he flipped to another page, which contained a story about one of the Witchers.

“Who is…Lil Bleater?” Emhyr read out, amused by the name. 

“Uh…a goat?” Valdo guessed.

“It’s Eskel’s goat,” Jaskier hissed at him. “He saved her.”

Emhyr flipped the pages once more, pausing on a page and frowning at the words.

“ _Crumbled and broken, the laughter and tears that had once been, are now forever held within these silent stone walls_ ,” Emhyr read.

“A battle,” Valdo said quickly, glancing at Jaskier, who faltered somewhat.

“It’s…it’s about the Sacking of Kaer Morhen, of the Witchers and of the children who were murdered there by the invaders,” Jaskier said quietly, looking to Emhyr. 

“Yes, this is certainly yours, Jaskier,” Emhyr agreed, looking to Valdo, who had paled. “Mererid…see that he is punished. Fifty lashes should do it.”

“P-Please, Your Majesty, please!” Valdo tried to plead, but Emhyr just ordered the soldiers away, eyes fixed on the begging troubadour until he was dragged from sight. He looked back to Jaskier, seeing he was looking conflicted after watching his rival being dragged away, even after Marx had tried to steal his songs once again. 

“I will keep hold of this for now,” Emhyr informed him, tucking the notebook into a pocket on the inside of his doublet. He was curious now to read what Jaskier had written about the Witchers. “Jon, escort Jaskier back to the gala…once he settles that is,” Emhyr added, seeing Jaskier was still looking unsure.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Jon said, inclining his head from where he was still holding onto Jaskier.

Jaskier was uncertain of how he should be feeling. On one hand he felt vindicated that Marx had finally been caught and punished for all of the shit he had put Jaskier through, for all of his songs that he had stolen…but on the other hand, he hadn’t wanted Valdo to be lashed and potentially permanently hurt. He just wanted him sent away, disgraced maybe…but not hurt. Jaskier’s back twinged in sympathy with remembrance of much it had hurt when he had been switched. 

He watched as Emhyr and Mererid headed back to the gala, while Jon and Cahir stayed with him while he calmed and got his thoughts back in order. He had wanted so badly to grab his notebook back from Emhyr, but he knew he couldn’t. Besides, he hadn’t written anything in there to be worried about Emhyr reading. He had always known that Emhyr could demand to read it…and he hadn’t wanted to give any of his Wolves secrets away. 

“You okay?” Jon asked him softly a few moments later as he let Jaskier go. Jaskier nodded, running a hand through his hair and taking in a deep breath.

“Yeah, yeah,” he answered, voice not as shaky as he felt. “Let’s just get this night over with, huh?”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Cahir muttered from beside him. 

Sighing, Jaskier allowed Jon and Cahir to escort him back to the main hall, where he’d sing and perform again until he was allowed to retire for the evening. Usually he would love to do events like these, to sing and perform until the sun came up…but now, he just wanted to go back to his room and be left alone, so he could hang onto the medallion and dream that he was with Geralt once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, there it is!  
> It's 2am Christmas Eve, but I got it finished for you!! 
> 
> Thanks for all the comments!  
> Let me know what you think...and Merry Christmas!


	25. Missing You

Jaskier bowed with a flourish as he finished his song, panting with exertion. He glanced towards Mererid, hoping that the chamberlain would tell him that he was done for the evening. He wanted to be done. He’d had enough, still seeking Geralt’s eyes even though he knew he wasn’t there. He just wanted to go back to his comfortable cell, to be left in peace without being eyed off by Lords looking to seek Emhyr’s favour, to be seen as Nilfgaard’s Royal Bard. 

“Play that Toss a Coin song!” someone yelled out, making Jaskier stiffen, recalling Emhyr’s words. Jaskier straightened, fixing a smile on his face as he brushed his damp hair from his sweaty face. 

“Ah, I would love to,” he announced. “However, my set is almost finished and I am not certain if I can squeeze it in.”

“Aw, c’mon!” 

Jaskier turned towards Emhyr, who was trying not to frown as he stared out upon his guests. 

“If our illustrious Emperor allows the change in my set, as it would affect some of the other songs we had planned out,” Jaskier said carefully, bowing low in Emhyr’s direction. Emhyr smirked at that before he nodded.

“I will allow it,” Emhyr stated as he leaned back in his chair. “You may change your set to include your Witcher song.”

Jaskier straightened up once more, breathing in a deep, but shaky breath, as he steeled himself, eyes closing as he strummed the oh-so familiar and comforting first notes of his song…of their song. 

“ _When a humble bard_ ,” Jaskier sang out, voice clear and even, “ _Graced a ride along, with Geralt of Rivia…along came this song…_ ”

Liliana paused at the back of the great hall, turning slightly so she could watch Jaskier sing the song he had become famous for. She watched as he closed his eyes, singing from the heart…and, oh, she could tell it was from the heart, could hear and _feel_ what the Witcher meant to the young bard. 

With a soft sigh, Liliana turned away, leaving the bard to sing out his longing for his dearest friend and companion. 

When he was done, Jaskier stepped back, swallowing a lump that had appeared in his throat as he had sung of his Witcher, of his dearest friend, who he missed so greatly. He just wanted to look up, to see Geralt looking at him, with the unamused look as he stared at Jaskier – fondly annoyed with Jaskier for singing that song and bringing attention to him sitting there in the corner – but he knew Geralt wouldn’t be there when he did look up, so he didn’t look up, knowing he’d wouldn’t be able to bear it if he did so. 

Jaskier couldn’t resist looking up when he heard a remark about the shackle around his ankle, though he was not sure what had caused it. 

“Some Royal Bard,” someone said snootily, their identity hidden within the crowded room, “has to be chained. Is he gonna run away? Is he a prisoner?”

Jaskier swallowed, glancing at Emhyr at that, who had straightened, cold brown eyes flickering over the crowd to try and determine the identity of the one who had been so bold as to say that. 

“Well, Bard?” another yelled out, emboldened by the first. Jaskier glanced to Emhyr again, his heart pounding in his chest, before he swallowed, fixing a weak smile on his face.

“Ah, my good gentlemen and ladies, you shouldn’t believe all you see and hear,” he lied, standing as straight as he could, though feeling as though his legs would collapse underneath him. “This shackle is to protect me,” he laughed. “I told the Emperor of some happenings which had happened in courts I’ve played at before, and to ease my concerns about becoming Royal Bard for Nilfgaard, he did this to appease my fears, a way to show that I…I belonged to Nilfgaard and wouldn’t be harmed, especially under his watch.”

Chattering and laughter arose at Jaskier’s words, though he tasted bile at the back of his throat just by saying that. He chanced a look to Emhyr, seeing the Emperor looked surprised, though a smug smile adorned his face and he inclined his head to Jaskier. Jaskier nodded back, though his stomach still churned with the lie he told. He still didn’t know why he said it, why he lied.

Fear perhaps, Jaskier mused bitterly. Fear of being punished, of being beaten - like the man had ordered be done to Valdo - …fear of Emhyr destroying his notebook.

Swallowing harshly once more, Jaskier’s hand went up to press against his doublet, above where Geralt’s medallion sat upon his chest.

Or Emhyr could take Geralt’s medallion, his one true comfort and his last connection to his beloved friend, away from him. Jaskier knew that would truly break him, to have that last link to Geralt ripped away from him.

Jaskier glanced towards Mererid, seeing the chamberlain was distracted elsewhere, before he stepped back and placed the lute away, hands shaking. He wanted this to be over. His set was done…he just wanted to leave, to bury himself under the covers of the bed, surrounded by quiet.

He think he understood how Geralt felt to a degree, when the noise just got too much and too overbearing for Geralt’s sensitive hearing, when he couldn’t filter the loud noises out. Jaskier frowned at that thought as he settled down to sit, running a hand through his hair, grimacing as the strands of his fringe stuck to his sweaty forehead.

He had never felt like this before, never been so irritated by noise – unless he was rather exhausted and people were being assholes to Geralt. He usually thrived in situations like this, bustling about and feeding off the crowds’ loud energy…yet now, he hated it. He had never really felt like this at a gala before – sure, at an inn with the rough, disgusting bigots who made snide, disgusting comments about him and Geralt – but never at a gala, where he had the chance to get dressed up, eat delicious foods, drink rich wines and sleep in soft, luxurious beds. 

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier glanced up at the gentle voice, seeing Jon crouched beside him, looking at him with gentle green eyes. 

“Are you okay?” he asked the quiet bard gently. Jaskier shook his head, swallowing deeply.

“I-It’s so loud,” Jaskier mumbled to him, pulling his knees to his chest. “Feels…feels so cramped and so loud…”

Jon frowned slightly at that, glancing at the hall. The noise level was at an expected level for a gala, something he was sure Jaskier would be familiar with, yet the young bard was wincing as though the sound was grating upon his ears, curled up tightly as though they weren’t in some spacious hall but in some cramped, claustrophobic inn. 

“All right,” Jon murmured, concerned about Jaskier and the signs of anxiety he was showing. “Let me talk to Mererid and I’ll try and get you out of here.”

Jaskier nodded, wincing at the overlapping voices echoing and rebounding off of the walls, making his ears hurt and his chest constrict.

Jon was soon back at his side as Mererid went to murmur in Emhyr’s ear. Jaskier frowned at his trembling hands before he looked up at Jon, who was staring back at him in concern.

“Mererid has gone to speak to the Emperor,” Jon murmured gently to him. “You just need to breathe, Jaskier. Just breathe, slow deep breaths.”

Jaskier nodded shakily, though he was unsure of why his heart was racing, of why everything was just so _loud_.

“Our Imperial Majesty says to take him to his room,” Mererid said as he bustled over, bending over to unlock the shackle around Jaskier’s ankle. He rested a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder before Jaskier went to get up, getting the bard’s attention. “You did well,” Mererid praised. “Our Emperor is pleased…and says to get some rest…once you change out of your outfit, that is.”

Jaskier swallowed, giving a curt nod before smiling weakly at Jon as the gentle medic offered his hand. Jaskier took it, allowing Jon to help him to his feet before the medic wrapped a reassuring arm around his shoulders, leading the trembling bard from the hall. 

Mererid frowned at the lute case left behind. He knew the bard was rattled about something, having seen the anxiety running through the blue eyes and hearing the concern hidden with Jon’s voice once the healer had approached him. Mererid beckoned a passing servant.

“Take that to Jon’s room,” he ordered the servant, knowing it was best to let Jaskier rest for now and Jon would return it to the bard when he deemed the bard ready for it. Once Mererid watched the servant hurry off, he sighed and turned his attention back to the gala. He had to make sure the rest of the night ran smoothly – minus a Royal Bard. 

Jon quickly ushered Jaskier into his room, feeling the bard trembling beside him. 

“Come now,” Jon murmured as he led Jaskier towards the bed. “Why don’t you get changed into something more comfortable and I’ll go grab some water…or juice if you prefer?” Jon added, looking to Jaskier, concern riddled in his green eyes.

“I don’t care,” Jaskier said hoarsely as he began to unbutton the doublet, the tailored clothing item feeling far too restricting.

“Mm, juice then,” Jon murmured under his breath. “Might do good to get something sweet into you.”

Jaskier just shook his head as Jon turned and hurried from the room, focusing instead on getting those blasted doublet buttons undone. He finally managed to do so, carefully tossing it over the back of the couch before he moved onto the rest of his clothing, quickly stripping out of them before getting changed into the softer, looser clothes he’d been given to wear around in his comfortable cell and to sleep in.

When he was dressed, he sat on the edge of his bed with a sigh. His ears were still ringing slightly, and his heart was still pounding in his chest, but he didn’t feel so closed in or trapped anymore. Reaching up, Jaskier took Geralt’s medallion in hand as he so often did and swiped his thumb over the engraving.

“Is this how you felt during all of those galas?” he murmured to it. “When it was so horribly loud, especially to your sensitive ears? Oh, what you put up with for me, my dear heart…I will love you forever for it.”

Jaskier swallowed harshly at that as a lump formed in his throat and tears blurred his vision. 

How he missed Geralt…how he _loved_ him.

Jaskier swallowed down a sob wanting so desperately to tear itself from his throat. He had to be strong…had to be strong for Geralt, like Geralt was always strong for him. Taking in a deep, shaky breath, Jaskier fisted the soft blankets beside him, trying to ground himself. He looked up as Jon walked back in, carrying a pitcher of juice. Jon smiled softly at him as he set the pitcher down, noting that Jaskier had seemed to have calmed, not looking so tense or anxious anymore, the bard’s eyes now looking heavy and tired. 

“Here,” Jon murmured as he passed Jaskier a mug of juice. “Drink up, Jaskier.”

Jaskier did as asked, knowing Jon wouldn’t hurt him and was only looking out for him. Jon settled down to sit on the edge beside him as Jaskier finished the mug of juice, soothing his throat, which was left dry and slightly sore from his performance. 

“You’re looking calmer,” Jon said quietly, carefully, once Jaskier had finished his juice. “Feeling better now you’ve left the gala?”

“Got too loud,” Jaskier muttered as his fingers toyed with the mug, drumming against its sides. “Too loud…too much…too much attention.”

“Too much attention?” Jon pushed gently.

“Attention on me…from Emhyr, from Filavandrel, Valdo, the crowd when they noticed my shackle,” Jaskier listed, shuddering slightly.

“Ah,” Jon hummed, understanding where the anxiety may have come from. “When you lied about the purpose of the shackle…how did that make you feel?”

“Like I wanted to throw up,” Jaskier muttered bitterly. “Why the fuck did I even say something? I could have stayed quiet, could’ve said nothing at all…”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I didn’t want to make him angry!” Jaskier snapped, head snapping to the side so he could glare at Jon, who just stared back calmly. “I didn’t want him…didn’t want him to get angry so he-he’d take it out me, I-I mean, he sent Valdo to get fifty lashes as punishment w-while he could've just sent him out in disgrace which would've ruined his career...didn't need to go that far, to hurt...”

Jon’s face softened at that and he rested a comforting hand on Jaskier’s back.

“So you chose the option to keep you safe,” Jon said gently. “That isn’t a bad thing, Jaskier, that isn’t wrong. You may feel sick that you did that, but it does not make you weak. It makes you human.”

“I didn’t want him to take this from me,” Jaskier muttered, as he clutched Geralt’s medallion tightly in his hand. “Didn’t want him to destroy my notebook o-or hurt Buttercup to punish me. T-They’re all I have of Geralt, Jon…if…if I lost them…” Jaskier trailed off, voice breaking. Jaskier looked at his lap, exhaling shakily. “Well, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Geralt gives you strength, doesn’t he?” Jon asked softly, eyes fixed upon Jaskier’s posture, taking in the bowed, slumped shoulders. “You hold onto his medallion whenever you’re scared or uncertain, you write stories and songs about him and his brothers in your notebook, and you love the horse he gave you.”

Jaskier slowly tilted his head to the side so he could meet Jon’s gaze. 

“He’s…he’s different,” Jaskier said quietly, voice hoarse. “He’s just…he’s different.”

“He cares for you,” Jon said with a small smile, recalling what Jaskier had said about the Witcher in the past. “As you care for him.”

Jaskier swallowed again, giving a small nod. Jon understood now why Jaskier didn’t want to anger Emhyr, yet also understood how disgusted Jaskier felt with himself for lying. He didn’t blame Jaskier, didn’t think any less of him for doing so, but he knew that wouldn’t help Jaskier.

“Why don’t you get some rest, huh?” Jon suggested gently, watching Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut, body bowing forward, heavy with exhaustion. Jaskier nodded, reaching up to rub at his eyes sleepily, suddenly realising how utterly _exhausted_ he felt – from both the gala and from the panic attack and the emotional conversation with Jon about Geralt. 

Jon stood up, shuffling about as Jaskier climbed into bed, curling up deep beneath the covers.

“Sleep well, Jaskier,” Jon murmured as he absently fixed the blankets around Jaskier. “I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”

Jaskier nodded, sighing heavily as he burrowed deeper under the heavy blankets and into the soft mattress. He heard the door shut as Jon left the room before he sighed once more and closed his eyes.

He could still hear the sounds of the gala below. The rambunctious noise muffled by the different floors and the closed door, but still the sound made him shudder, knowing that they were down there. He knew that his guard squad was back on the door and that they wouldn’t let anyone in – which gave Jaskier some degree of comfort, knowing he didn’t have to fear for his life from some party guest seeking revenge (like Valdo and the ones he served) or ones seeking to use him, to get back at Emhyr or whoever. 

Still, being away from the gala made Jaskier relax, just knowing he was curled up in bed, buried under soft blankets and alone at last, with no one staring at him, wanting him for something.

The only thing that was missing was Geralt.

Pulling his legs closer to his chest, Jaskier curled up, hand reaching to loosely grasp the medallion once again.

“Night, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered to it as his eyes fluttered shut. “I miss you…but I’m waiting for you. I just know you’re looking for me, so I won’t give up on you.”

Geralt rubbed his eyes wearily as he finished getting dressed, reaching up to tie up his slightly damp hair – still damp from the hot springs. Vesemir had ordered him there after dinner to unwind as Geralt had been extremely tense after a day of planning and going over every detail, trying to work out the perfect plan in order to rescue Jaskier. Triss had turned up the day previous, having been digging up maps and plans that she had of the palace from her time serving in Vizima. 

It had been two week since they had learnt of Jaskier’s location and Geralt had barely rested as he looked over a multitude of maps and plans, trying to figure out the perfect plan, the one that would ensure Jaskier’s safety. Eskel forced him to eat, while Lambert and Aiden both dragged his butt outside for a spar every now and again, as Vesemir forced him to rest. Yennefer usually just called him an idiot and chased him out to go teach Ciri and spend some time with his Child Surprise. 

He was thankful for them for keeping his head straight. He just got so lost in his fear for Jaskier, in his guilt, that he just hyper-focused on working out the best plan to save his beloved bard.

Geralt was cautiously confident that between them they could work out the perfect plan to get in, rescue Jaskier, and get out, hopefully before anyone really realised that they were there…but it didn’t make that wait any easier, knowing Jaskier was in reach, but was still so far away.

He walked down the stairs, heading towards the small hall where everyone had gathered to relax for the evening, having spent all day doing chores, training and then coming in to look at the maps of Vizima and plans of the palace, trying to work out the best route to go to rescue Jaskier.

Geralt paused outside of the small hall, leaning against the open doorframe as he took in the scene within the room. 

Ciri was sitting on Coen’s knee, bundled up in a heavy winter dress, as the Griffin held her close, both of them playing some sort of card game on the table with Auckes and Serrit – who had become quite taken with the vivacious, mischievous young Princess - which had Ciri giggling with glee as she and Coen won the round once more. 

Vesemir was sitting at the other end of the long table with Tissaia. Both of them were in deep discussion, as they usually were during the evenings, both sipping some fancy wine that Tissaia had brought with her when she had come back to Kaer Morhen. 

Yennefer and Triss sat nearby, both of them conversing as well, as they kept an eye on everyone in the room. Triss was looking tired and worn. She had come as soon as she had gotten Yennefer’s message that Jaskier was being held in Vizima, telling the Witchers everything she knew about the palace and the usual guard system – though she knew that would have changed with Nilfgaard’s occupation.

Eskel was sitting in the armchair by the fire, murmuring softly to Lil Bleater, who was sitting in his lap with one of her legs bandaged, having managed to injure herself by skidding across an icy patch. 

Lil Bleater bleated softly at him before she grumpily curled up closer, chewing on Eskel’s shirt sleeve sleepily as Eskel stroked her back soothingly. 

Lambert was sitting on the floor on a pile of furs near the armchair Eskel was in, with Aiden perched on his lap, the Cat Witcher curled in close, nuzzling into Lambert’s neck. Lambert was flushing slightly, though he look pleased…and oddly calm with Aiden snuggled up close as Lambert absently went over his gwent cards. 

It made Geralt happy to see his waspish brother looking so calm and happy…and he was glad that Lambert had finally admitted to Aiden how he felt about him, truly. 

But still…seeing Lambert and Aiden so happy together, so comfortable with one another, with no secrets between them about how they really felt about one another…caused a hollow feeling to settle in his chest, near his heart.

Swallowing deeply, Geralt turned away from the warmth of the small hall, away from the comfortable conversation, and headed towards the entrance. He pushed open one of the large, wooden doors and paused, just staring outside. 

Sighing heavily, Geralt sunk down to his knees, just staring out in the training yard, now covered in a thick covering of snow which had fallen over the last week. The Vipers had gotten here just in time, when the first falling of snow had fallen two days later, enough to make the trail practically deadly to try and climb. 

Geralt shifted to sit on his rear, so he could pull his knees up towards his chest, wrapping his arms around them loosely before resting his chin upon his knees, gazing out into the night. Despite the freezing cold wind howling through the yard, the night sky was oddly clear for Winter, not covered in its usual coverage of roiling grey clouds which threatened to drop rain or snow – depending on how cold it was. 

He exhaled softly again, as though it would settle the ache in his chest, as he stared up at the stars, taking them all in. It wasn’t something he usually did, just sat back and stared at the stars…unless Jaskier made him, telling him stories of the different stars and constellations as the excited bard pointed them out. 

Geralt closed his eyes briefly at that though, the ache in his chest deepening. He missed his bard so much that part of him felt like it was missing. He opened his eyes once more, tilting his head back so he could stare upon the stars, unable to help wondering if Jaskier was staring up at them now, if he was staring at the same sky, thinking of Geralt just as Geralt was thinking of him.

“Wolf.”

Geralt turned his head slightly at the rough voice, seeing Letho approaching in his peripheral.

“Letho,” Geralt grunted, resting his chin back upon his knees. He ignored the huffed breath and the shifting of clothes, the creaking of joints, as Letho sat down beside him, staring out the door as well. 

“You know, when I first got here, I couldn’t figure out why you were so torn up about your bard,” Letho said, his voice low and quiet. “I mean, I get he’s your friend, that I can plainly see, especially how he spoke about you…but, it took me a while to see how much you _really_ care for him.”

“And what about it?” Geralt growled at him, eyes flashing as he stared at the Viper. The corner of Letho’s lips pulled up slightly.

“Nothing, Geralt, nothin’ at all,” Letho said with a slight shrug. “Honestly, just wasn’t expectin’ it…being Witchers and all. Wouldn't expect a relationship such as yours and Jaskier's to form between a Witcher and a human bard.”

“He’s different,” Geralt murmured with a sigh, shoulder drooping slightly. “He’s just… _different_.”

“Oh I know, I met him,” Letho chuckled deeply. “I could tell he cared for you, the way he spoke about you, but I just didn’t realise those feelings went both way.”

Geralt lifted his head at that, looking back to Letho, a frown creasing his brow. 

“He spoke of me?”

Letho inclined his head, looking back out over the silent courtyard. “He wanted to know who I was, what I had told Emhyr. He wanted to know what I did to Adda, because _you_ had been the one to save her almost at the cost of your own life.”

“Sounds like Jaskier,” Geralt laughed weakly.

“He also wears your medallion,” Letho said, glancing back at Geralt as Geralt’s head whipped towards him in shock.

“What?!”

“Apparently he made some deal with the Emperor,” Letho explained. “He behaved and he got to keep your medallion – which he apparently clutches often, seeking strength from it.”

Geralt just stared at him, speechless. He didn’t know what to say to that, to know that Jaskier wore his medallion, that he sought comfort from it. 

“I also knew that he cared for, loved you, when he asked me to pass you a message, yet couldn’t think of what to say,” Letho continued. “He coulda said _'Tell him I’m safe,'_ but that would have sounded wrong seeing as he’s a captive…and he knew that, since he couldn’t figure out what to say to comfort you without worrying you also.”

Geralt gave a curt nod, unable to say anything with the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat.

“We’re gonna get your bard back, White Wolf,” Letho told him quietly but firmly. “I’m gonna get back at Emhyr for trying to kill my brothers and myself…and we’ll rescue your bard and keep your new, adopted little wolf pup safe.”

“Thank you, Letho,” Geralt managed to say. Letho nodded before he pushed himself up to standing, going to walk away. Geralt frowned suddenly, looking back at Letho. “Hey, Letho?”

“Mm?”

“If Emhyr hadn’t come after you, hadn’t targeted you, would you have told me where Jaskier was?” Geralt asked, golden eyes boring into Letho’s. Letho paused for a moment, thinking that over.

“I would have given you his message,” Letho said slowly, carefully, “but as for telling you his location, if Emhyr hadn’t betrayed me…well, I guess we’ll never know, will we?”

Geralt watched as Letho walked away, heading back to his brothers, before he turned his attention back to the snow covered yard, Letho’s words echoing through his head. He knew they were planning extensively so they were ready to go as soon as the snow melted, but it still killed Geralt to just sit there, knowing Jaskier was out there…and wearing his medallion.

Jaskier had made apparently made a deal with Emhyr just so he could have it, because he knew what it meant to Geralt…and he was wearing it, gaining strength from it. 

“Stay safe, Songbird,” Geralt whispered to the sky. “Let my medallion protect you, give you strength, remind you that I will never give up on you.”

Geralt sighed, tilting his head back to look back up at the stars once more. 

“As soon as the snow melts, I’ll be on my way, Jaskier. Just stay strong…I won’t give up on you ever, so don’t give up on me. I can’t live without you, Songbird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew...there's that one!  
> Sorry it's taken so long, but Christmas was just so bloody stressful, it got me so stressed and rundown that I basically just just shut down until after New Years...  
> and my Pa isn't doing so well, so I've been struggling a bit with that...but writing has helped these last few days, even just a bit a time :)
> 
> Thank you for all of the comments, they've really meant a lot to me!
> 
> Let me know what you think, cause I'm a sucker for comments lol, and you've gone quiet on me these last couple of chapters


	26. Considerations

Liliana quietly entered Jaskier’s room – having heard from the morning servants that Jaskier had still been fast asleep when they had gone to give him breakfast. She peered around, smiling softly when she that the young bard was still curled up in bed, just a lump of blankets upon the bed. 

Softly, Liliana walked over, making sure her footsteps were light and soft so she didn’t wake the poor thing. As soon as she had finished her shift the evening before during the gala, she had headed straight home and had searched through her husband’s carvings. She knew she had seen something there for Jaskier, something that niggled at her mind the moment she heard him sing of Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. 

The elder woman stopped beside the bed, peering over at Jaskier with a soft smile. The young man was curled up tightly, face gentle and lax in sleep, his cheeks a soft pink from the warmth of the cocoon of blankets he was buried underneath. She took in the peaceful, calm look on his face, so deep in a good dream it seemed. Smiling gently, Liliana reached into her apron pocket, pulling out the material wrapped bundle she had stored in there. 

She paused, frowning slightly at a small moan coming from the sleeping bard. Jaskier’s face had screwed up slightly, the young bard looking uncomfortable as a soft whimper escaped his throat. Liliana quickly placed the wrapped item onto the bedside table before she leaned over, gently carding a soothing hand through Jaskier’s hair, shushing him.

“It’s okay, Jaskier,” she whispered to him as she stroked his hair, much like she did her grandsons when they had a bad dream. “It’s just a bad dream, just a bad dream.”

Jaskier’s nose screwed up slightly as he shuffled slightly, beginning to show signs of waking. 

“G’ralt,” the low whine escaped his throat. “Don’t wanna get up.”

Liliana smiled sadly at him at that, gently shushing him and stroking his hair. 

“You don’t need to wake up, sweetheart,” she cooed softly. “It’s all right.”

Jaskier snuffled at that, eyes opening a crack as he turned slightly in order to look up at Liliana, squinting up at her.

“Liliana?” he mumbled sleepily as he scrubbed at his sleepy eyes. “W-What’s goin’ on?”

“Nothing, sweetheart,” Liliana reassured him. “I came to give you a gift and found you having a bad dream.”

“Wasn’t a bad dream,” Jaskier sighed as he sat up, tiredly rubbing at his face. “Just…I don’t know.”

“You miss your Witcher,” Liliana supplied gently. “Were you dreaming of him? You…you thought I was him when you were waking up.”

A pink flush rose upon Jaskier’s cheeks as he awkwardly ran his hands across the covers of his bed.

“Ah, well, yes,” Jaskier admitted with a sad, longing smile. “He always woke me up before I wanted to go…guess I miss even that.”

Liliana looked upon the dejected bard. She could see how much he missed his Witcher, could see it in the bard’s very posture, within the slumped shoulders and the longing, saddened blue eyes. 

“Here,” Liliana said as she sat upon the edge of the bed, reaching for the gift she had brought for Jaskier. “I brought you something.”

Jaskier tilted his head curiously at that as he took the material wrapped bundle. “For me? Darling, you shouldn’t have!”

“I remembered this when you sang last night, of your Witcher,” Liliana explained as she watched Jaskier unwrap the carving. 

Jaskier paused when it opened, seeing it was a carving of a howling wolf, painted in shades of white and grey. A lump formed in his throat as he ran his fingers over the elaborate carving, feeling the detail of each individual carved fur upon its body, upon the carved, howling head. 

A White Wolf…

“I know your Witcher is called the White Wolf, you sang about it and him,” Liliana explained gently, watching as Jaskier’s trembling hands gently examined the carving. “I thought you’d like this, to remind you of him…to remind you to remain strong, young Jaskier, to have faith in your White Wolf.”

“I-I’ll always have faith in him,” Jaskier said voice shaking as he looked up to Liliana, giving her a wobbly smile. “T-Thank you, I-I love it.” 

Liliana smiled at him, patting his knee, as she watched him so carefully place the carving on the bedside table, turning it so it was facing him in the bed. 

“Now, the girls brought you some fruit up for breakfast earlier, but you were asleep,” Liliana explained as she got to her feet and brushed down her skirt and apron. “There’s some juice there as well, for whenever you feel like eating.”

Jaskier smiled tiredly at her, closing his eyes slightly as she gently cupped his jaw, stroking his face with a thumb.

“No rush to get up today if you don’t want to,” she told him gently. “You were up late last night and you did so, so well. It’s understandable if you’re exhausted.” 

Jaskier smiled tiredly at her, already feeling the exhaustion creeping in again. Liliana gently petted his cheek again before she stepped back.

“Sleep well, sweetheart.”

Jaskier smiled at that. “Thank you, Liliana.”

The elderly woman smiled at him once more before she left the room, as quiet as she came. Jaskier sighed, running a hand through his sleep mussed hair. He ran his tongue across dried, cracked lips before he sighed once again. Jaskier reached out for the jug of juice left on this bedside table, carefully pouring a drink. Sipping the tart juice, Jaskier looked back at the carved howling wolf before he reached to the medallion hanging on his chest, nestled upon his chest hair.

How he missed his fearsome White Wolf. 

Thirst quenched, Jaskier placed the mug aside before he lay back down again, pulling the thick blankets up around his neck to protect himself the cold wind howling about outside. He turned upon his side, just so he could stare at the wolf carving.

In a way, as Jaskier’s desperate and lonely heart reached, it felt like Geralt was watching over him.

With the wind howling about, battering at the thick windows, Jaskier reached up again to hold onto Geralt’s medallion, sinking down deep into the still warm nest of blankets and allowed himself to drift off, dreaming of his White Wolf with the soft, expressive golden amber eyes. 

Emhyr sat in his office, where he was usually found during the day, frowning as he stared upon the innocent looking leather bound notebook lying upon his desk. Jaskier’s notebook, the one where he wrote all of his memories, stories and songs about the Witchers who had Emhyr’s daughter. He tilted his head as he regarded the notebook. His fingers twitched, itching to read what the bard had written – though he knew that Jaskier would not have written anything that would give any weaknesses away, anything that could be used against his Witchers. 

Unable to take it anymore, Emhyr reached forward, grabbing the notebook before he settled back in his chair. He exhaled before he opened the notebook, glancing at the first page. He scanned over the pages, taking in Jaskier’s scrawled, looping writing which detail stories of Geralt, with notes and half written lyrics scrawled in the margins on the page.

He read over stories of Eskel, learning about the strong, mountain-like Witcher…who accepted a baby goat as payment and had raised her, keeping her as a companion – despite the starving nights when towns refused to pay him, he still kept her. 

Jaskier wrote of the goat’s many escapades, apparently she was quite a little character and nuisance. He wrote of how the goat, Lil Bleater, managed to steal quite a number of clothing items – which apparently the Witcher Lambert was not pleased about…though Jaskier also mentioned how Vesemir – who also had not been pleased – could not stop the small smile that pulled at his lips at the sound of Ciri’s laughter after Lambert had fallen head first into a rather large mound of snow. 

Emhyr read over that section again, reading how Jaskier described Ciri’s bright, clear, loud laugh and how it carried across the Kaer Morhen’s empty yard, pulling smiles from all of the Witchers standing there, watching as Lambert tried to retract himself where he had buried himself in the snow mound. 

Emhyr turned the page, reading on. He read Jaskier’s small anecdotes about Ciri learning from the Witchers, just small stories, small moments about them. He wrote of how Eskel picked her up and dusted her off when she fell during hand-to-hand training, wrote of how Lambert taught her how to stalk…and how she managed to tackle a very surprised Geralt – which had Lambert roaring in laughter as Ciri sat on Geralt’s back triumphantly. He read of Ciri learning how to cook with Vesemir, with Jaskier writing of how eager Ciri was to learn from the elder Wolf, who so patiently and so warmly taught her all that she needed to know. He read Jaskier’s recollection of Ciri curling up under Geralt’s arm during the evenings, as Geralt held her close and stroked her hair, murmuring softly to her.

Emhyr’s heart constricted slightly as he read that, as he imagined Ciri looking up at Geralt with such care and adoration…like she would a father…like she should be doing with him.

Emhyr continued to flick through the pages, learning about Lambert, Eskel and Vesemir…and more about Geralt. He read Jaskier’s words, read the songs and ballads he had written – both the finished and partially written ones. 

Frowning once he had gotten up to where Jaskier had finished, Emhyr placed the notebook back down, lost in thought. He couldn’t help but think over all of the stories that he had read regarding the Witchers and his daughter. They seemed to have been teaching her, giving her some sort of fight training – which honestly, Emhyr expected. The Witchers would not want someone who could not at least defend themselves to be attached to them. They did teach Jaskier to defend himself, to fight back after all…and Emhyr expected, no, he knew that the Witchers would have taught his daughter the same lessons, which would be useful once she took her title as his heir. She could fight back against all that opposed her.

Though he must get clarification from Jaskier, he mused, to ensure that they weren’t attempting to turn his precious daughter, his heir, into some freak mutant Witcher. Nilfgaard would never accept a Witcher as their Empress. 

Geralt opened his eyes as a loud crack of thunder sounded overhead, echoing throughout the old Keep. He blinked, staring up at the old rock ceiling overhead before he limply turned his head to the side so he could stare out of the window. He watched as lightning flashed brightly, arcing across the sky. Geralt winced at the loud boom of thunder that followed, the windows rattling in their frames with the force. 

Grunting deep in his throat, Geralt turned onto his side, away from the window and facing the very empty, cold spot in his bed. A deep exhale escaped Geralt’s throat as he stared upon the empty spot, void of its usual occupant. 

Geralt’s eyes shuttered as he imagined Jaskier lying there, face soft in sleep with his lips parted ever so slightly as he breathed deeply and evenly. He could see Jaskier’s wayward fringe wisping across his forehead and across one of his eyes and Geralt’s fingers twitched, just wanting to be able to have the chance to brush that fringe off of Jaskier’s face once more, to see the small twitch of a smile that Jaskier gave at the feeling, at the soft, content sigh Jaskier would give. 

In a storm, Jaskier would usually curl up close, wrapping his arms around Geralt as much as he was able, pressing his cold toes against the back of Geralt’s calves, as he pressed himself against Geralt’s back or front – depending on which way Geralt was lying, though Jaskier was never fussy as long as he could cling onto his Witcher. Usually Geralt would grumble under his breath, though the last year it had been more playful and teasing, as he pulled Jaskier closer, letting his bard snuggle close, his warmth permeating through Geralt as he did so, making Geralt feel warm…and _loved_. 

Geralt rested his palm against the sheets of the empty side of the bed, feeling just how cold it was. Geralt shivered, suddenly feeling bereft of warmth without Jaskier there beside him. 

It was like a chill had run through him, freezing his blood in his veins. It felt like he’d never be warm again, not in that bed, not ever…not without Jaskier. 

Another loud crack of thunder echoed throughout the Keep and Geralt sat up, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed. He couldn’t stay there. Not without Jaskier. 

Geralt shuffled from his room before he paused outside the door, hesitating. He didn’t know where to go. 

He didn’t want to be alone, not at the moment, but he couldn’t go to just anyone. Lambert had Aiden…and there was _no way_ that Geralt was interrupting whatever was going on there. Vesemir would be understanding, but Geralt didn’t want to see his mentor’s pity, to show his weakness to Vesemir - though he knew in his heart that Vesemir wouldn't judge him. Yennefer was definitely out of the question…which only left the one person that Geralt could really go to, who would offer his comfort with no questions asked.

His brother, his closest one. 

Geralt quietly walked through the Keep until he reached the oh-so familiar door. Throughout the years he had come here through the hard nights, when the memories wouldn’t stop assailing him, reminding him of his failures. He had spent many a night during Winter, curled up in bed here after the Butcher of Blaviken incident, when the guilt became too much. 

Geralt pushed open the door, wincing slightly at the loud creak that echoed through the silent hall. 

“Wha’?” came the sleepy voice from within. Geralt winced as he walked in, closing the door behind him. “G’ralt, that you?”

“Yeah, sorry, Esk,” Geralt mumbled as he glanced around the room. An annoyed bleat sounded by the smouldering fire place. Geralt couldn’t help but give a small smile at the sight of Lil Bleater curled up in a wicker basket stuffed full of soft blankets. 

“No, no, all good,” Eskel yawned as he sat up and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “What’s wrong?”

“Just…couldn’t sleep,” Geralt said lamely, shuffling slightly in place. Eskel nodded, face softening slightly in understanding. He shifted over in his large bed and patted the spot beside him.

“C’mon then,” Eskel yawned. Geralt hesitated for a moment, looking at Lil Bleater, who was still staring at him. She actually looked unimpressed with him.

“I’m not gonna wake up to find her eating my hair or my clothes, am I?” Geralt joked weakly, nodding to Bleater. 

“Nah, you’ll be fine,” Eskel grinned, glancing at Lil Bleater sitting curled up in her basket. “She can’t really walk on that sore leg at the moment anyway, so you’re safe. Now get your butt in bed.”

Geralt chuckled softly at that. Eskel never failed to make him laugh when he needed it. He quickly walked over the chilled stone floor, sliding into the bed beside Eskel. Eskel yawned largely again, his jaw cracking at the strength of it, before the large Witcher settled back down, pulling the furs back up over them both as Geralt settled down beside him.  
They lay together in silence for a moment, with Geralt tucked up on his side facing Eskel, who turned so he could face his brother.

“You okay?” Eskel asked gently, breaking the silence between them.

“Just…missed Jask,” Geralt mumbled, eyes fixed on a large scar on Eskel’s burly chest. “Couldn’t stop thinking about him. Couldn’t stay in my room knowing he should be there…that he’s not here.”

Eskel nodded in understanding, soft sigh of sadness escaping his lips at the sight of his dejected, downcast brother. 

“I’m sorry, Geralt,” Eskel murmured, reaching out grasp his brother’s shoulder and squeezing slightly. “We’re going to get him, I promise. As soon as the snow melts we’ll be on our way. We have the beginnings of a good, solid plan worked out.”

“I know,” sighed Geralt, saddened amber eyes glancing up to meet Eskel’s comforting, assuring gaze. “It’s just…I miss him, Esk.”

“I know, I know,” Eskel said gently. “Just know you’re not alone, Wolf. If you need someone to talk to, if you want company – like now – I’m always here for you.”

Geralt smiled slightly at that, meeting Eskel’s gaze again. “I know, Eskel. Thank you.”

Eskel smiled back at him, about to say something more when an annoyed bleat broke the moment.

“All right, Bleats, all right!” Eskel chuckled, shaking his head with fondness. “Sorry, Geralt.”

Geralt chuckled and shook his head, amused. “Better not anger her too much, huh? Rather not tempt her to bite me.”

They both settled down under the furs, the thunder rumbling around them as they did so. Geralt exhaled softly, sinking into the mattress, surrounded by Eskel’s familiar, comforting scent, which reminded him of their years as boys, when they crawled into each other’s beds, just seeking comfort and reassurance after their gruelling training and when they made it through the Trials when so many of their group did not. 

Being with Eskel meant he was safe, that he wasn’t alone. It had been that way since they were both boys, even before the Trials. Eskel was his brother and he had been his closest, most trusted friend since then…even after Jaskier had wormed his way into his life. Jaskier was up there with Eskel now, with how he made Geralt feel in terms of safety and comfort…though there were differences between how Geralt felt about Eskel and Jaskier. Eskel understood what made Geralt _Geralt_ , what their childhood – or lack of childhood – had been and all of the torments and pains that they had faced. Jaskier could never truly understand what horrific pain Geralt felt when he had undergone the Trials, the overwhelming fear that he wouldn’t make it as he choked on his own blood, blood which had been caused by his pained screams. Jaskier could never understand that, not like Eskel could. 

However, Jaskier understood Geralt, knew what all of his different grunts and looks meant and he could read Geralt like he was an open book, in ways that had honestly shocked Geralt when Jaskier had first started. It had made Geralt suspicious as Jaskier began to correctly interrupt his grunts, wondering if Jaskier was a mage or a creature of some sort, but Jaskier had just been observant, had taken the time to get know Geralt when others hadn’t. Jaskier treated him in ways that Eskel could not. Jaskier could act so gentle and so soft with him, in a way Eskel couldn’t…because Witchers were not made to be soft, to be gentle. Jaskier could see what he needed even though Geralt denied it. He had seen that Geralt had been touch starved, that he just needed gentle touches and cares. He had made Geralt see that he had _deserved_ it, that he deserved all of the gentleness, all of the good things in life. 

Jaskier had been the best thing in his life, though it had taken Geralt so long to see it.

He would show Jaskier all of the love he deserved when he rescued his songbird, Geralt thought sleepily as his eyes fluttered shut, comforted by the sounds of Eskel’s soft, deep snores. He would show Jaskier all of the love and affection that he deserved and more.

Tissaia sat in a comfortable chair by the window, watching as lightning arced across the sky. She couldn’t sleep, too much on her mind. Tissaia settled back in the chair, sharp eyes fixed upon the sky, waiting for the next arc of lightning to light up the sky. 

They had spent the day going over plans, much like they had done for the last week or so, trying to figure out the best plan to execute in order to save Jaskier. 

Tissaia frowned at that, gaze tracing the lightning as it forked across the sky. 

There was no way she could sit idly by as Yennefer, Triss and Sabrina went to save the bard, yet there was also the issue of her going against Nilfgaard, especially since she was well-known, being the Rectoress of Aretuza and being a member of the Chapter of Sorcerers. 

It could come back against her, could get her and her girls in trouble when the Chapter discovered she went up against Nilfgaard, against the Emperor of Nilfgaard himself. 

She pressed her fingers against her pursed lips, deep in thought. She had to go about this carefully. She had to make the right decision. 

Tissaia sighed, pulling her warm dressing gown tighter around her as a cold wind managed to whistle through the small gaps in the window. She massaged finger tips against her temple, feeling a headache coming on.

She had become disillusioned with the Brotherhood and the Chapter recently, with their decision to not defend Cintra, to not go up against Nilfgaard…and then to accept young girls with next to no magical ability, with no grasp on Chaos, because their parents paid for them to attend Aretuza, like it was some temple school. 

The girls certainly weren’t like Ciri, who had real magical talent and who needed true guidance. 

Tissaia smiled softly as lightning lit up the sky, illuminating the grounds of Kaer Morhen. There was something oddly endearing about the crumbled Keep…and its occupants.  
Perhaps it was time to consider the path she was on. Perhaps it was time to give up being Rectoress, reduce the time she spent with the Chapter, to retire, to teach a student who truly needed her help and guidance to ensure that the Chaos wouldn’t kill her…or everyone around her. 

Tissaia looked around the room fondly, taking in her touches to the room here and there, but eyes resting on the furs and furniture that Vesemir had found to make her room more comfortable and homey, some he’d even repaired and fixed up himself for her. 

Yes…perhaps Kaer Morhen wouldn’t be a bad place to retire to…especially with the company she’d have.

Jaskier fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, tugging and readjusting here and there as he was escorted to Emhyr’s private room. He always hated being led here, not knowing what was coming, what would happen to him.

He entered the room once Emhyr allowed it, with the guards shutting the door behind him, effectively locking him in with the man who ordered his kidnapping. 

“Jaskier,” Emhyr greeted from where he was sitting upon the couch. “Sit.”

“No wine this time?” sniped Jaskier as he sat, perched upon the edge of the couch opposite Emhyr just in case he needed to move quickly. 

Emhyr smiled thinly at him. “Good to see you haven’t lost your spark,” he drawled, making Jaskier stiffen, “and no, this won’t be a long conversation.”

Jaskier frowned slightly at the Emperor, yet still remained perched on the edge of the seat, spine rigid and body tensed. 

Emhyr pulled out the notebook from behind the cushion beside him, resting it on the small table between them. He smirked as he saw Jaskier tense, looking like he very much wanted to lunge forward and grab the book…but knew better than to grab it before he was given permission. 

“I see why that Marx fellow wanted to steal your notebook,” Emhyr stated, looking at the nondescript leather bound book lying innocently between them. “You have the beginnings of some good songs and poems in there, ones that will be sung across the Continent.”

Jaskier blinked, looking at Emhyr, eyes wide with shock and surprise at that. He _never_ expected the Emperor of Nilfgaard, his captor, to say that. 

“Of course, I also know that there are stories in there about your Witchers, about Ciri, that you would not want to fall into someone else’s hands,” Emhyr continued, eyes fixed firmly on Jaskier. “I do not want some half-rate foolish troubadour to sing about my daughter, to put her in danger for some sort of fucking fame,” Emhyr spat, watching as Jaskier tensed, eyes widening slightly with fear. Emhyr relaxed slightly at that. “I know you wouldn’t,” Emhyr added, watching as Jaskier relaxed ever so slightly. “You write the stories, the memories for your own sake, not so all of them can be shared.”

“No,” Jaskier said hoarsely. “T-They were meant to be just for me. Some songs about the Witchers I would share eventually, but some things, some memories and thoughts I just wanted to get down.”

Emhyr nodded, looking at the notebook once more. “Marx deserved his fifty lashes then,” he muttered to himself, though Jaskier heard it, the bard swallowing harshly at the reminder of what had happened to Marx. “He wouldn’t have cared, he would have just wanted the fame.”

“W-What did you do to him?” Jaskier asked shakily. “A-After the lashes?”

“He was sent on his way with the ones who brought him,” Emhyr said absently, uncaringly, as he leaned back. “Sent home in disgrace…and warned if I ever saw him again, if I heard of him stealing again, that he would lose his hands.”

Jaskier winced at that, but swallowed harshly once more, nodding ever so slightly. 

“Speaking of what you wrote,” Emhyr drawled. “The stories, the memories you wrote about Ciri and the Witchers.”

“Y-Yes?”

“You wrote about the Witchers training my daughter,” Emhyr stated, leaning forward to grab the notebook once more, flicking through the pages, finding the one he wanted. “You wrote about Eskel picking her up after she fell during hand-to-hand training. You wrote about Lambert teaching her how to stalk, to launch sneak attacks.”

Jaskier frowned in confusion. He had written anything particularly incriminating in there. He couldn’t risk Geralt, Ciri and his Witchers after all.

“Yes?”

Emhyr leaned forward, eyes fixed intently on Jaskier’s face, watching for every flicker of emotion so he could tell if the bard was lying or not.

“Tell me,” he ordered lowly and warningly. “Are they attempting to turn my daughter into a Witcher?”

Jaskier blinked, startled by that question. 

“They can’t,” Jaskier answered truthfully. He was surprised that Emhyr was asking him. It was pretty common knowledge that Witchers couldn't be made anymore, that they were dying out. “They can’t make Witchers anymore which is why they’re dying out.”

He decided to leave out the part that Ciri was being trained to be a Witcher, just without the mutagens, instead bolstered by her powers. 

“So why the training?” Emhyr questioned, as though he knew Jaskier was hiding something.

“So she can defend herself,” Jaskier said simply with a small shrug. “She was left traumatized and terrified by the attack on Cintra, the murder of her family, and from being hunted continuously…so Geralt and his brothers are giving her training so she can defend herself, so she doesn’t need to feel so scared of _you_.”

Emhyr remained silent at that. At least his daughter would be strong, that she would be a fighter.

“Well,” Emhyr said coolly as he placed the notebook back down between them. “If she’s receiving the training you received, then she shall be fine. She will make a fierce, strong Empress one day.”

Jaskier stiffened at that, biting his tongue to stop the retort that he so desperately wanted to say, to tell Emhyr to get fucked and that Ciri would choose her own path, not the one she’s been forced to follow. 

“Take your notebook and get out,” Emhyr ordered. Jaskier was all too happy to comply, quickly gathering his notebook up and clutching it close to his chest as though it would be taken from him again. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier muttered, as he tapped his fingers on top of the journal cover, “for not letting Marx take it…for returning it.”

Emhyr inclined his head. “You performed well at the gala…and behaved perfectly. You deserve it back.”

Jaskier swallowed at that, feeling that guilt and self-disgust churning his stomach, nodding, before he turned to leave.

“One last thing, Bard,” Emhyr spoke up, freezing Jaskier in his tracks. “Tell me one thing.”

“Okay?” Jaskier said uncertainly as he looked back at the Emperor, who was staring at him, brow furrowed. 

“The Witchers,” Emhyr said carefully. “Tell me…do they look after my daughter? Are they good to her?”

“The best,” Jaskier answered truthfully, not needing nor wanting to hide that fact. “She’s family to them and they adore her so…and she loves them just as much in return. They are her uncles, her family.”

Emhyr inclined his head at that, exhaling, the tension bleeding from his shoulders at that. At least they would keep her safe from others who may seek to harm her until he got back to Nilfgaard, even if her true parentage was somehow leaked…he knew that Geralt would never allow her to be harmed, it wasn’t in his nature, which Emhyr knew from when the White Wolf saved him from Calanthe’s wrath and anger. 

“You may leave,” Emhyr said to Jaskier, watching as the bard nodded before he quickly hurried off. 

Cirilla was being trained to defend herself, to become strong, which Emhyr approved of…but part of him was also relieved that the Witchers were actually kind to his daughter, not being emotionless, detached monsters that they were rumoured to be. 

Emhyr hummed thoughtfully at that, tapping his fingers against the arm of the chair. Jaskier had said that Ciri considered the Witchers family, calling them her uncles, and the Witchers thought of her as family as well. 

He would have to remember that. It could be useful, it could open up more possibilities, more ways to ensure that Ciri took her place as Empress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one down...I swear I am trying to get this story moving along, but I need to flesh things out first haha...
> 
> Also, I might be a little slow in updating...after my last update, my Pa ended up being admitted to hospital and it's been a bit tough because decisions might need to be made like whether or not he has to go to a nursing home...and he doesn't remember my name anymore, so yeah...
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and thoughts for my Pa last chapter, it really meant a lot xx
> 
> Let me know what you think because I'm sucker for comments 😆


	27. Different Paths

Jaskier smiled tiredly at Jon as the medic wandered around the room, fussing about as he chattered along. Jon had come bustling in, as usual, joining Jaskier for breakfast, just to make sure he ate before he kept him company for as long as he was able. 

“How are you feeling after the gala?” Jon asked, glancing at Jaskier from where he was standing by the window, peering out. 

“Tired,” Jaskier answered truthfully as he curled up in the armchair, hugging a pillow to his stomach. “Just…tired.”

Jon nodded in understanding, green eyes soft as he stared at Jaskier, seeing the bard did indeed look tired, dark bruises smudged under the young man’s eyes, evidence of broken sleep, despite the fact it had been almost a week since the gala.

“How have you been sleeping since the gala?” Jon asked gently as he walked over to sit on the couch across from Jaskier. Jaskier frowned at the question, hugging the pillow closer to his chest. It had been almost a week since the gala…and Jaskier had been struggling, being woken by nightmares, instinctively reaching out for Geralt only to find the bed beside cold and empty. It just made him remember how alone he was…how vulnerable. 

Jaskier gave a small shrug of his shoulders. “Not well,” he muttered bitterly.

“Nightmares?” Jon asked sympathetically.

“I guess,” Jaskier sighed, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. Jon frowned slightly at how clammed up Jaskier seemed to be…but he also knew that Jaskier wasn’t the one to open up about his feelings, about sharing what he thought might be weaknesses, especially not to the ones who held him captive. 

Jon knew, that even though he just wanted to help Jaskier, and though Jaskier did trust Jon to a certain degree, that Jaskier would _never_ fully open to him, to trust him with his weaknesses. 

Jon suspected that Jaskier only truly opened up to the one person…the person he was missing now. Jaskier was absentmindedly playing with the Witcher medallion, as he usually did when he was worried or lost in thought…or thinking of his Witcher.

He sighed as he ran his fingers through his curls, eyes fixed on Jaskier, who was still staring blankly at the wall, lost in thought. 

He looked up when the door opened, seeing Cahir peering in. Sighing, Jon looked to Jaskier, who was frowning at Cahir, before he got to the feet and walked over to Cahir.

“What is it?” Jon murmured to him, glancing back at Jaskier, who was watching them intently, pillow clutched tightly to his chest. 

“Mererid was looking for you,” Cahir answered quietly. “Some soldiers apparently have gotten into some accident while training in the snow and ice.”

Jon sighed, “Of course they did,” as he rubbed his nose tiredly before he glanced back at Jaskier. 

“I’ll sit with him,” Cahir murmured to Jon, giving a slight grin when he saw Jon’s questioning and slightly suspicious look. “Brought my gwent cards and everything.”

Jon laughed at that, rolling his eyes good naturedly before he shook his head.

“All right, all right,” Jon laughed softly as he rested a hand on Cahir’s upper arm. “Just be…gentle with him, Cahir. He’s been struggling and he’s bordering on a breakdown.” 

“I will, Jon,” Cahir murmured, meeting Jon’s gaze. “Don’t worry…”

“Mm,” Jon hummed, a little bit doubtful, knowing how much Jaskier intrigued the commander. Cahir gave a smirk, seemingly knowing what Jon was thinking. 

“Fuss not, Jon,” Cahir drawled quietly, shifting forward to rest his hands on the medic’s shoulders. “I think I’m getting over that intrigue.”

“Oh?” Jon asked curiously, arching an eyebrow, knowing that Cahir wasn’t easily dissuaded once something caught his interest. 

“Mm,” Cahir hummed. “Think I found something that intrigues me more.”

Jon cocked his head, brow furrowing in confusion as he stared at Cahir, surprised by his words, even as the commander stared intently back. 

“Now get going, Jon,” Cahir ordered, almost teasingly. “Don’t want to keep those soldiers waiting for their lecture.” 

Jon rolled his eyes, gently elbowing Cahir’s side. 

“Behave,” he warned him with a small smile, turning to wave to Jaskier before he ducked under Cahir’s arm and hurried off, needing to treat some soldiers and treat them to a very stern lecture about being careful on ice. 

Cahir looked back to Jaskier, seeing the bard staring back at him, eyes narrowed. He wandered over to the couch, which Jon had just vacated, and settled down to sit opposite Jaskier, who was still watching him warily. 

“Where’s Jon?” the bard questioned carefully.

“Had to go take care of some wounded soldiers,” Cahir answered easily as he leaned back, settling down amongst the cushions. “They were being stupid apparently and slipped on some ice.”

“Never fun,” Jaskier said quietly, which made Cahir chuckle.

“No, it definitely is not,” Cahir agreed. Jaskier shifted slightly in his chair, still uncertain about the Nilfgaard commander – though their interactions had changed slightly, with Cahir not seeming to be so focused on working Jaskier out and creeping him out with his never-ending staring and obsessiveness. 

“So I take it you’ve come to take over babysitting duties?” Jaskier asked scathingly, ignoring Cahir’s amused expression. “Come to try and figure me out again?”

“No,” Cahir said nonchalantly as he shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t believe it is possible to figure you out. You’re a contradiction wrapped in an enigma, Bard…but I think that is what makes you, well, _you_.”

Jaskier stared, wide-eyed and taken aback at that. Cahir just smirked as he tilted his head, regarding Jaskier.

“You’re of noble birth, yet you gave that up to become a travelling bard,” Cahir began to explain. “You dress in fancy clothing, yet you have no issues with sleeping in the woods and getting dirty. You perform for loyalty, yet your most chosen path is to follow a Witcher around the Continent. You like to be clean and have the largest collection of scents I’ve seen a male have, yet you seem to have no issues getting your hands dirty to look after your Witcher. You’re a travelling bard, yet you can hold your own against trained soldiers.”

“So what?” Jaskier asked, a little queasy at all of the thought that Cahir had put into trying to figure him out.

“That’s it,” Cahir shrugged again. “You’re a walking contradiction, Jaskier, yet it’s just so… _you_. You wouldn’t be Jaskier if you weren’t any of these things. So I realised that there was no way to completely figure you out, that there was no rhyme or reason to you.”

Jaskier hummed lowly in his throat at that. He didn’t feel like he was a contradiction. He knew he did things that people didn’t expect of him, didn’t want of him…but that just made him feel like himself. He didn’t think he was a walking contradiction, he just felt like himself. 

“Right,” Jaskier muttered finally. “So gonna find someone else to creep on now?”

Cahir stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowing, before he relaxed once more, meeting Jaskier’s gaze.

“No, not really,” he admitted coolly. “None have been as intriguing as you are. Though I do have other things to occupy my time now, so fret not.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes at that, but settled somewhat as he leaned against the arm of the armchair he was tucked in.

“Plan to terrorise someone else?” Jaskier quipped. 

Cahir just smiled thinly before he reached into his pocket, pulling out a couple decks of gwent.

“I believe gwent will suffice for now,” Cahir smirked. “Unless you count me beating you in gwent as terrorising you?”

Jaskier couldn’t help the small burst of surprised laughter that erupted from his chest at that, being totally taken aback by Cahir’s almost teasing attitude. 

“Well, I was taught gwent by a champion,” Jaskier said as he straightened up, placing the cushion aside as Cahir laid the decks out between them. Oddly enough, it didn’t feel so…uneasy being near Cahir any more, as though the tension had disappeared now that Cahir was no longer intrigued by him in such an obsessive, creepy fashion. 

Of course he still didn’t trust the Nilfgaardian Commander, but it was slightly less tense now, knowing that Cahir wouldn’t creep on him any further, not having to be on his guard all the time. 

“Really?” Cahir asked him as he picked which deck he would use. “Who do you know who is a champion at gwent?”

“Geralt,” Jaskier answered softly as he looked over the decks, considering each one. “He’s won quite a few tournaments, was named champion in a few cities.”

“Huh,” Cahir hummed as he watched Jaskier finally settle on a deck. “I wouldn’t have expected that of him.”

Jaskier nodded in response as he looked through the deck he had chosen. “Pretty sure he has his own gwent card floating about somewhere. Can’t remember which deck it belongs to though.”

“I’ll have to try find it,” Cahir said, smiling slightly as Jaskier laughed softly under his breath at that.

They played a few rounds of gwents, the games won pretty evenly matched between them as they switched out the decks every now and again. 

Jaskier glanced up at Cahir, watching as the commander frowned as he regarded the cards he had in hand, while looking at the cards laid out upon the table. He recalled the night of the gala, seeing Cahir looking shaken by something as Jon looked concerned. 

“The night of the gala,” Jaskier said carefully as he chose the next card to play. “You looked…displeased about something. Jon looked worried for you.”

Cahir gave a small, bitter scoff under his breath, glancing up at Jaskier. 

“Why, you worried?”

Jaskier shrugged. “Just never seen you looking so rattled before…or Jon looking so worried for you.”

Cahir paused for a moment, brow furrowed as he regarded the cards between them. He considered telling Jaskier to fuck off, to mind his own business, but when he glanced at the bard, all he saw was hesitant curiosity…and Jon did tell him to play nice with Jaskier after all. Perhaps this was a way to get the bard to stop looking like he’d prefer to jump out of a window, or collapse into a ball of nerves at the very sight of Cahir.

“My father had been invited to the gala,” he said suddenly, surprising Jaskier. “Let’s just say he’s a hard man to please.”

“Oh?” Jaskier questioned, surprised that Cahir had opened up so easily about this.

“My father is a lord of Nilfgaard – which was one of the reasons that the Usurper chose me as one of the soldiers, so he could keep my father in line,” Cahir explained, pausing for a moment in the game, smiling bitterly. “It was a way to ensure that none of the Nilfgaardian Lords would try to rise up against him, to organise a coup, by taking a child of each lord, well, the Usurper guaranteed that that wouldn’t happen…especially after he killed four sons of lords publically when he caught wind of them trying to organize a coup.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathed, horrified.

Cahir smiled thinly as he looked back to Jaskier. “Let’s just say, that despite everything, despite what I’ve achieved becoming Commander and all, my father wasn’t pleased when he last saw me…since I failed.”

“Failed?”

“Letting you escape, not capturing the Princess as I was ordered to,” Cahir muttered. “Apparently I’m a failure to him.”

“Fathers are always hard to please, finding fault in everything yet overlooking your achievements,” Jaskier said, bitterness lining his tone also. “You could always say that the Emperor chose you to be one of my personal guards here.”

Cahir laughed at that, shaking his head. “Not enough apparently. He sees it as a punishment, not a redemption.”

Jaskier hummed, nodding. “Like I said, sometimes, for some fathers, what you do is never enough.”

“Is that what yours thought?” Cahir questioned, curious now, never heard Jaskier speak of his family before…only knowing that they disowned him. 

“My family is nobility,” Jaskier said slowly, carefully, as he placed his gwent cards aside, not in the mood to play anymore. “I always thought my father ensured that Lettenhove was taken care of, that the people were taken care of, kept safe.”

“But it wasn’t like that,” Cahir said quietly. 

Jaskier shook his head. “My father used to tax the people, some ridiculous amount which they struggled to pay at times,” he explained quietly. “I had gone to find my father and found him in an audience with one of the peasants who lived in town. He was begging my father to be lenient with his taxes for this season as his children had fallen ill and that the town healer had taken their share for the medicine to keep the kids alive.” Jaskier swallowed harshly, looking down at his hands, entwined his lap. “My father refused, telling him he should’ve just let his kids die.”

Cahir made a noise in his throat at that, alarmed, but Jaskier just stared at the gwent cards laid out upon the table. 

“I suddenly realised why the kids in the town never wanted to play with me, never wanted to be my friend, why the adults looked upon me with anger and disgust…and I hated my father for it,” Jaskier explained. “I grabbed some crowns and some food and sneaked out of the house that night, towards the village to find the man my father had turned away. I found him in some worn down house that could barely keep the cold out, yet it was all they could afford, the best the father could do with the taxes my father imposed on them.”

“What did they say when you tried to give them the crowns and food?” Cahir asked, eyes focused intently on Jaskier’s face, enthralled by Jaskier's story.

“He just stared at him in disbelief…as I begged his forgiveness, telling him my father was wrong. He turned down crowns, refused them, and told me to get home before I got myself and them in trouble,” Jaskier breathed shakily. “I left the food by their door and headed home.”

Jaskier swallowed deeply, reaching up to grab Geralt’s medallion, which caught Cahir’s notice. 

“I, of course, was discovered as soon I got home…some servant tattling to my dad that I had sneaked out,” Jaskier said bitterly. “Father found me with the bag of crowns and demanded to know why I had them. I refused to tell him, refused to get that family in any more trouble…and I was beaten for it, left bruised and unable to move for days, and locked in my room, only allowed to eat bread and cheese for a week.”

Jaskier looked up then, meeting Cahir’s rather horrified gaze.

“It was then I swore that I would never become my father, that I would never be who he wanted me to be,” Jaskier said finally with a sigh. “They sent me to Oxenfurt, thinking I would change my mind if I studied away from home, since I was rebelling against everything they wanted me to do and be, but instead I found what I loved, playing the lute and being a bard.”

“And that’s when you were disowned?” Cahir asked curiously.

“Pretty much,” Jaskier sighed as he leaned back in the chair, shifting the cushion so he could hug it to his chest again. “Father told me if I tried to be a bard, then he’d disown me, that I would no longer be part of the family, but swore he would never let me leave, that he would keep me locked under key so I wouldn’t throw my birthright away…so that night I packed my bags and crept out and never looked back.”

“What about your mother?” Cahir asked.

“Agreed with my father…as did my older sisters,” Jaskier said bitterly, tugging at the tassels hanging off of the cushion. “They’ve probably been married off to some assholes by now.”

Cahir nodded in understanding, knowing all too well what noble families were like, what the expectations were. 

“Julian Alfred Pankratz,” Cahir stated slowly, surprising Jaskier. He remembered what the bard had said when Cahir and Fringilla had given him the truth potion, the truth about his real name. 

“That’s what I was born as,” Jaskier said bitterly, yanking at one of the tassels of the cushion angrily. “Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz of Lettenhove. I got rid of that name the moment I left home.”

“To Jaskier,” Cahir murmured. Jaskier nodded again, reaching up to fiddle with the Witcher medallion hanging around his neck once more. Cahir tilted his head curiously as he regarded Jaskier. “Why choose that name?” he asked. “It’s something I’ve wanted to know. Out of all the names you could have chosen, why choose Jaskier?”

Jaskier hesitated for a moment, glancing to Cahir – who truly just did look curious, not at all malevolent. Jaskier knew that there wasn’t really a way Cahir could use this story against him, but it was still something he held dear to his chest. 

“It…it was a name my grandmother used to call me when I was a boy, before she passed,” Jaskier answered quietly, reminiscing about the one woman who truly loved him for who he was. “She was a free spirit, not like someone would expect a noble woman to be like. I loved her dearly, she was the only one who understood me, who never scolded me for wanting to run about and make daisy chains and learn music. She was the one who sang to me, to call me her Jaskier.”

“She called you ‘Buttercup’,” Cahir said, somewhat amused. Jaskier glared at him so Cahir cleared his throat slightly before continuing on, “So you took that name on to honour her, to remember her, the only one who wanted you to be who you wanted to be.”

Jaskier inclined his head.

“Sounds like a great woman,” Cahir said quietly, surprising Jaskier. “Not many nobles are like that. Usually ladies are all prim and proper and stern as anything. She would have been amazing to know.”

Jaskier smiled softly at him at that, eyes softening. “She was amazing.”

Cahir nodded back before glancing back at the paused game of gwent between them. 

“So,” Cahir said, putting an end to the deep and meaningful conversations. He couldn’t get too attached to Jaskier, couldn’t compromise himself for the bard. “Shall we continue the game?”

Jaskier sighed but nodded, glancing over his cards again. “Yeah, sure, I believe it was your turn anyway.” 

Jon paused when he walked into Jaskier’s room a few hours later, unable to help the surprised smile that pulled at the corner of his lips at the sight. Jaskier was still curled up in the armchair, but his head was resting on the arm now, cushion still cuddled against his chest, deep in sleep. Cahir was sprawled out on the couch opposite, head tilted slightly in Jaskier’s direction even though he was also fast asleep. 

He quietly walked into the room, towards Cahir. Cahir cracked open an eye when he heard Jon’s footsteps – trained to wake up at the smallest of noises. He gazed up at Jon with sleepy eyes, matching Jon’s smile with a sleepy one of his own. 

“Well, you two seem comfortable,” Jon said quietly, glancing back at the still sleeping Jaskier, just relieved that the bard was sleeping. “I wasn’t expecting Jaskier to nap with you around.”

Cahir nodded as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his sleep heavy eyes.

“We’ve reached an even ground, I guess,” Cahir yawned, looking to Jaskier.

“Oh?”

“We spoke about our fathers. Apparently our fathers aren’t too different, nor were the expectations they placed upon us,” Cahir answered, glancing up at Jon’s startled face. 

“That’s…different,” Jon finally managed to say, to which Cahir rolled his eyes. Jon gently swatted his shoulder in response to that, saying, “Oh, you know what I meant. Your father isn’t a topic you bring up willingly, especially to those who aren’t your friend.”

“I know,” Cahir sighed as Jon sat down on the couch beside him, both of them looking to the still sleeping Jaskier. “But you said to play nice with him…and I thought it’d be a way to stop the bard looking at me like I’m some horrid monster.”

“Cahir…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know why he looks at me like that,” Cahir muttered, “but we spoke, told him I wasn’t so intrigued in him anymore and we spoke about our fathers, our childhoods…turned out we aren’t so different there, but the path we chose when it came time definitely differed.”

“He became a bard and you continued on to become a commander, for your family name,” Jon murmured. Cahir nodded, hands clenching the pants material across his thighs.

“Makes you wonder,” Jon said thoughtfully. Cahir turned his head slightly to look at the healer, seeing the thoughtful look on his face.

“About what?” Cahir questioned.

“What you could have become if the Usurper hadn’t taken over,” Jon said quietly, his green eyes meeting Cahir’s blues intently. “Would you have still joined the Nilfgaardian army? Would you have just been brought up to be a noble? Or would you have taken a different path completely?”

Cahir hummed thoughtfully at that before he shook his head, pushing those thoughts aside. It was no use thinking about what could have been.

“What about you?” Cahir asked, studying the medic’s face as Jon frowned thoughtfully. 

“I’d still be a healer,” Jon answered with a soft smile. “I enjoy doing it…at times. But I think I would enjoy being a healer for the people, not in a war.” Jon paused for a moment, considering his next words carefully. “Sometimes,” he said carefully, “sometimes being a medic in a warzone makes me question my morals, makes me ask myself what I’m doing here.”

Cahir’s gaze drifted back to the sleeping Jaskier, whose face was soft and peaceful in sleep, making him look even younger. He knew what Jon was speaking about, what Jon struggled with. Jon wanted to help people, not be there to stop prisoners from spiralling into depression just so they can continue to be used. 

As much as he hated to admit it, Cahir had been questioning himself recently also, especially after the revelation about who Cirilla was to their Emperor and what he had planned to use her for. 

“I know,” Cahir murmured, resting his hand on Jon’s knee reassuringly. “I know what you mean.” 

Jon smiled weakly at him before his own gaze landed back on the peacefully sleeping Jaskier. 

“Guess time will tell what happens to us all,” Jon said softly, as Cahir hummed in agreement, though neither of them willing to voice what they thought the future would bring…and what might happen.

Vesemir smirked as he cast Igni, melting a path through the snow so the stables were still accessible. Though he scolded his young pups for using the Signs unnecessarily, there were times where it called for it…and he was much too old to shift the snow by hand and none of the pups had been unruly enough that he’d punish them by making them shovel the snow. 

He turned at the sound of a portal behind him, smiling as he saw Tissaia step out from within the swirling centre.

“Tissaia,” he greeted, walking up the steps to properly greet her. 

“Vesemir,” she greeted in turn, smiling back at him before looking out across the snow covered yard, which glistened under the rare winter sunshine. Despite its grumbling façade, Kaer Morhen certainly held some magical beauty. 

“Are you okay, Tissaia?” Vesemir questioned her gently as he stood beside her, taking in the thoughtful look upon her usually stern face. “You’ve been quiet recently.”

“I’ve just been considering a few things,” Tissaia informed him, turning to face the concerned elder Wolf Witcher. “I actually made a few decisions, which is why I had to leave for a few days.”

Vesemir’s golden eyes pinched with concern. “Are you all right?”

“I stepped down as Rectoress of Aretuza and stepped back from the Chapter,” Tissaia told him, startling the old Wolf. “After what little action they took when it came to stopping Nilfgaard and their decision to accept girls into Aretuza with no magical talent, with no connection to Chaos, merely because their parents paid for it…well, I couldn’t stand it any longer.” Tissaia looked back towards the yard, tugging at her sleeves to even them out, something compulsive she couldn’t control yet something for which Vesemir never judged her for. “It was a decision I had to come to, especially since I will be going with your sons and my girls to save Jaskier from Nilfgaard, from the Emperor himself. I had to protect Aretuza from any retribution when it gets around that the Rectoress went up against Nilfgaard with Witchers, against the Emperor himself.” Tissaia paused for a moment. “That way the Chapter and the Brotherhood can distance themselves from me…and I am free to help rescue Jaskier, to help teach a student who truly needs my guidance for her incredible connection to Chaos…and to finally live my own life.”

Vesemir searched her face for a moment before he nodded. He could understand how she felt, the need to protect her school…but also to live her own life. It was how he felt. He did what he could to keep Kaer Morhen protected and standing, just so his boys had a place to call home, a place they could truly be safe.

He had stepped back from being a Witcher, unable to continue down the Path after the Sacking, but he was still there for when his boys needed him. 

“So what will you do?” Vesemir asked her gently. “I know you plan to teach Ciri, but what else?”

Tissaia frowned thoughtfully as she looked back over the snow covered yard and towards the valley just beyond Kaer Morhen’s walls. 

“I am not sure,” she answered truthfully as she turned to face Vesemir once more, “but, if it is fine with you, I’d very much like to remain at Kaer Morhen…with Ciri…with you.”

Vesemir’s weathered face softened at that, a smile pulling at his lips as he reached forward to take Tissaia’s hand, bringing it up to brush a kiss across the back of her soft hand.

“Tissaia, I would love for you to remain here,” he told her truthfully, “to call Kaer Morhen your home, to remain here with me.”

Tissaia smiled at that, exhaling softly. She turned slightly to face the Keep at the sound of the loud, boisterous voices of Vesemir’s boys – mostly Lambert and his Cat friend. Vesemir tilted his head, hearing their conversation more clearly, before he sighed and shook his head.

“Getting into trouble?” Tissaia asked, watching as fondness washed across Vesemir’s face. 

“Bickering as usual…though Geralt seems to be joining in,” Vesemir said, relief within his voice, knowing that Geralt was feeling somewhat better today. “He’s been so quiet. It’s good to hear him bickering with his brothers like usual.”

“We’re going to bring Jaskier home, Ves,” Tissaia reassured him, knowing that Vesemir was so worried for Geralt. “Geralt will be back to himself in no time once we retrieve Jaskier.”

“I know,” Vesemir sighed, looking weary. “I just hope it’s in time.”

Tissaia nodded, squeezing the Witcher’s calloused hand reassuringly, watching as a small smile flickered at the corner of his lips. 

“It will be,” Tissaia told him firmly. “We will get the loud, musical, boisterous bard back and Geralt will go back to being his growly, over protective self.”

Vesemir tilted his head up to the sky, taking in the rare winter sun and blue sky, despite the cold wind. 

He only hoped that Tissaia’s words would be true, that everything would end up fine.

He couldn’t lose Geralt, his beloved Wolf. He had lost far too many friends and sons already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cahir and Jaskier find some common ground...though Jaskier still doesn't trust him for good reason...
> 
> Thanks for all of your messages and thoughts. Sadly the hospital decided that my Pa can't go home because of his condition since things won't get better, so he's been sent into a nursing home...which is the best for him and for my grandmother, but it's still been a bit difficult.
> 
> Thanks again for all of your thoughts...let me know what you think cause I'm a sucker for comments :P xx


	28. Punishment

Jaskier awkwardly pulled at the hem of the tailored doublet he was wearing as he absently followed his usual squad of guards as they led him down the silent hallway. Mererid, as usual, was leading the way, having come to fetch the bard, making sure he was bathed and dressed, suitable to be in the Emperor’s presence. 

Jaskier had been enjoying a quiet morning, just sitting on the window seat and watching, with a small amount of glee, as the soldiers slipped and slid around on the icy grounds below. Then Mererid had shown up, with the usual retinue of servants that bathed and dressed Jaskier, interrupting Jaskier’s peaceful moment – a time he had just to himself, not being watched by Jon or Cahir – and souring his morning as soon as Jaskier saw the tailored clothes, the ones he only wore when visiting the Emperor in his main office or for official events, being brought in. 

So now here he was, being led in the direction of Emhyr’s main office, as he awkwardly tugged the doublet into place as his heart raced in his chest. He always loathed being marched to Emhyr’s office or room, not knowing what the Emperor of Nilfgaard had planned for him, what awaited him inside the room. 

Mereird paused outside of the daunting wooden doors, where Emhyr was waiting just inside, the very thought making Jaskier shudder, which gained him odd side-eyes from the guards surrounding him.

“Enter.”

Jaskier took in a deep breath, steeling himself and straightening his back, before he entered, trying to look calm and uncaring, though his heart was racing, pounding against his chest. Emhyr was waiting for him, leaning forward with his elbows resting upon the desk with his fingertips pressed together, cold brown eyes calculating as they stared at Jaskier over the tips of his fingers.

“Jaskier,” Emhyr greeted.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Jaskier greeted in return, trying to keep the waver out of his voice as he inclined his head. 

“You’ll be spending the day in here, keeping out of trouble,” Emhyr informed him as he leaned back, indicating to a chair just to the side of the desk. Jaskier smiled thinly at that, knowing that it wasn’t a suggestion, before he walked over to the uncomfortable looking ornate wooden chair and perched himself down upon it, crossing his ankles primly as he stared back, almost defiantly, back at Emhyr, who just smirked back, amused at Jaskier’s stubborn, silent defiance. 

“Mererid, give him this,” Emhyr stated as he picked up a thick book. “It should keep him occupied.”

Mererid nodded curtly, taking the book from Emhyr before rounding the desk, walking to stand in front of Jaskier before offering the book with a look in his eye imploring Jaskier not to deny it. 

Jaskier smiled shakily at Mererid before he took the book, turning it over so he could see the title.

He screwed his nose up slightly with distaste before looking up at Emhyr, who had turned his head in order to look at Jaskier, who was sitting to the right of the desk and just a bit in front so Emhyr could keep him in sight at all times. 

“ _A History of Nilfgaard_ ,” Jaskier read out. “Sounds… _riveting_.” 

Emhyr arched an eyebrow at him before smirking. “I’m certain you’ll keep yourself occupied, and **silent** , while reading it.”

Jaskier looked down at the book upon his lap, hiding his scowl as he dramatically flipped the heavy cover of the book open, eyes fixed upon the tiny printed words upon the page, the beginning of the very thick book – which Jaskier just knew would be horribly dry reading. 

He ignored Emhyr’s quiet, amused chuckle and his subsequent conversation with Mererid before the chamberlain hurried off to perform his duties. 

Instead he kept his eyes glued to the pages, occasionally glancing up to see what Emhyr was doing, only to find the Emperor reading letters or reports, a frown upon as his face, before he answered the correspondence or sent out more orders. 

Occasionally someone came in to speak to him, which captured Jaskier’s interest – before it quickly waned when he realised it was over some trivial matters. 

It was only hours later, when Jaskier begun to get a headache pushing behind his eyes after hours of reading the boring, dull words of the Nilfgaardian history book, when Mererid walked in.

“Your Majesty,” Mererid said, bowing low. “He is here.”

“Send him in,” Emhyr ordered as he set aside the correspondence he had been working on, straightening up in his chair. He glanced at Jaskier, who had perked up, intrigued, before he focused his attention on the door, waiting for his guest to walk through.

His guest soon did enter, nervously glancing about the regally dressed office. 

Jaskier frowned at the newcomer, someone he had never seen before. The man was tall with dark skin and short cropped hair, with his piercing blue eyes sweeping across the room before they landed upon Jaskier and narrowing in confusion.

“You must be Istredd,” Emhyr stated, breaking the man from his thoughts. Istredd bowed low.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Istredd said respectfully as he straightened up.

“Sit,” Emhyr ordered, watching as Istredd walked over with sharp eyes, pressing his fingers together as he watched Istredd brush down his pleated dark grey doublet before he sat down. 

He glanced at Jaskier, seeing the bard wasn’t even bothering to hide his interest anymore and was just blatantly watching…but he ignored the bard for now. His interest in the conversation wasn’t of any concern to Emhyr…in fact he counted on it. 

Jaskier felt an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach as he watched Istredd sit down, and as Emhyr begun conversing with him, idly asking him about some dug and some monolith that had been discovered, which Istredd answered about enthusiastically. 

Something wasn’t right here, Jaskier couldn’t help but think as he absently reached up to touch the medallion pressed against his chest by the tailored doublet he was wearing. His heart rate picked up again, racing in his chest, skin prickling and stomach turning nervously. 

“Well, that sounds promising,” Emhyr said, bringing Jaskier’s attention back to the conversation at hand. “However, I brought you here to speak about another matter.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Istredd nodded, straightening up. Emhyr’s eyes drifted to Jaskier once more, who frowned when he noticed the attention. 

“Fringilla has informed me that you attended Ban Ard at the same time she was at Aretuza,” Emhyr started, watching as confusion spread across Istredd’s face as Jaskier’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “She also told me that you were rather close with a mage called Yennefer.”

A cold chill ran down Jaskier’s spine at Emhyr’s words, head snapping to look at Istredd to hear his response. Istredd looked confused but gave a small nod in reply.

“Well, yes, we were…though that changed when she Ascended,” Istredd said slowly, uncertainly. 

“Have you spoken to her recently?”

Istredd frowned, thinking back. “The last time I saw Yennefer was shortly before the Battle of Sodden,” Istredd said carefully. “She turned up to the dig site, tried to get me to run away with her again.”

Emhyr raised an eyebrow at that, glancing to Jaskier to see that bard looked just as shocked to hear that, with his nose slightly screwed up in disgust.

“And you refused?” Emhyr questioned, turning his gaze back to Istredd.

“Yennefer used to kind-hearted and innocent, but she soon became about power,” Istredd explained, folding his hands in his lap as he figured out what to say. “She didn’t care about anyone else, only for herself. She wanted to be the best, to have all of the power in the world…and never care what happened to those around her, even those she once called friends, she couldn't care less about, not with her lust for power and greatness.”

Jaskier’s blood heated at that, anger pooling in his stomach as he listened to the disparaging comments Istredd was making about Yennefer. 

“She’s selfish, power hungry, and she would sacrifice an innocent in a heartbeat to get what she wants,” Istredd continued on, unaware of Jaskier’s growing ire. 

Sure he might have agreed with Istredd once upon a time…but Istredd truly didn’t know Yennefer, like Jaskier had come to know her. 

She cared, Jaskier knew she did. She had come for him once she had heard he had been captured by Nilfgaardians – despite the rather rocky relationship they had had. He had seen her care for Ciri, treat that young girl like a daughter, to make sure she felt safe, that Ciri was praised and protected. 

He knew that Yennefer would throw herself into danger to protect Ciri, to protect Geralt…and even protect him. 

“If I were trying to get her on my side, to get her to give me information I need, what would you recommend I do?” Emhyr questioned, not catching as Jaskier’s knuckles went white from the death grip he had upon the history book, hands shaking with rage.

“Offer her power,” Istredd said simply. “Yennefer is selfish, self-absorbed, she’ll do whatever you want if you offer her power.” 

Jaskier’s arm was moving before his brain completely registered, everything just going red. He threw the book – with rather deadly precision if he said so himself – at Istredd. The thick, heavy set book flew through the air, smacking the startled sorcerer square in the face, hitting his nose with a loud crack.

“Fuck!” Istredd swore, hands flying to his face to stop the blood that had begun to gush from his nose. 

“You bastard!” Jaskier yelled at him as he leapt to his feet, anger flooding his veins. “You know fucking nothing about Yennefer of Vengerburg! She is more honourable than you are and she would fucking give her life for her friends, her _real_ friends!” 

Istredd just stared at Jaskier, wide eyed with shock as he tried to stem the flow of blood still gushing from his now crooked nose. 

“Mererid!” Emhyr bellowed as he got to his feet, glaring at Jaskier, who glared back, chest heaving as he refused to back down.

Mererid came hurrying in, followed by Jaskier’s squad of guards. Mererid paled, eyes widening in shock as he took in the scene, of Emhyr facing off the furious looking Jaskier with the Sorcerer sitting in the chair, groaning as he tried to stem the blood flowing from his nose. 

“Take Istredd to Jon,” Emhyr ordered Mererid. “Get him cleaned up.”

“Y-Yes, of course, Your Majesty,” Mererid stammered, though he shot Jaskier a worried, disbelieving look as went to help Istredd up. 

“You,” Emhyr stated, turning to the guards. “Take the bard down to the dungeons. He will be punished for this disrespect.”

Jaskier just bared his teeth, much like Geralt would have, as he glared back, trying not to let the fear overwhelm him and to keep the anger burning in his chest. 

“Take him,” Emhyr ordered the soldiers. Jaskier winced at the tight grips on his upper arms, struggling slightly, though the soldiers paid no attention to his struggles, dragging him from the office. 

The anger slowly began to evaporate as Jaskier was dragged further down into the bowels of the palace, knowing that Emhyr was following from the greetings and bows from the wide-eyed spectators watching Jaskier getting dragged away. 

The fear started to coil in his stomach as they entered the dungeon, the coldness oppressive as it emanated from the cold, mossy stones and rusty bars. Jaskier begun to struggle harder, trying so desperately to dig his heels into the cold, damp stones beneath him.

It was no use though as the soldiers easily managed to drag the writhing, struggling bard into a nearby cell. A whimper escaped Jaskier’s lips unbidden as he was pulled into the icy cold stone cell, eyes darting around the shadowed room, barely illuminated by the torches lining the corridor, yet still managing to highlight all of the creepy looking shackles and hooks hanging from the walls and ceiling. 

“Strip him to his smalls and hang him up,” Emhyr’s voice ordered coldly from somewhere behind him. Jaskier struggled fruitlessly but the stone faced soldiers paid him no mind, working seamlessly to strip Jaskier – yet keeping his clothes in one piece, not wanting to earn the Emperor’s or Mererid’s ire by ripping and destroying the bard’s tailored clothing. 

He fought back desperately as hands suddenly reached for the medallion hanging around his neck, kicking out, attempting to scratch, bite and headbutt whoever was near enough.

“Sire, he won’t let us take the medallion off,” one of the soldiers grunted as he was elbowed in the chest.

“Leave it,” Emhyr ordered, waving his hand dismissively. “Let it serve as a reminder to him, to remind him who let him be captured, to be punished today.”

Jaskier glared at him at that, knowing that Emhyr was trying to get him to doubt Geralt. That would never happen. Jaskier would _never_ doubt his and Geralt’s friendship ever again, would never doubt Geralt’s loyalty and protectiveness when it came to him.

Icy cold shackles were snapped around his wrists and Jaskier bit his lip, barely managing to restrain a cry of pain as the chain attached to the middle of the shackles was hoisted up and over his head, taking all of the slack out of the chain until Jaskier was forced to push himself up on the balls of his feet so his shoulders didn’t dislocate. 

Jaskier shivered as the frigid cold air licked at his bare skin as he hung there, just in his smallclothes with Geralt’s medallion the only item of warmth upon his skin, though the metal was quickly cooling, being leeched of its warmth by the oppressive coldness of the cell. He just trembled, chin hanging against his chest as the soldiers placed shackles, with short chain, around his ankles, which were attached to a metal loop in the floor in order to keep him still and stop him kicking out at his captors. 

The fight had fled Jaskier, leaving him cold and shivering with apprehension stirring in his stomach as Emhyr stepped up, taking Jaskier’s chin and forcing the trembling bard’s head up in order to meet his gaze.

“That was very foolish, Jaskier,” Emhyr said, eyes cold as the room they were in. “Why do such a stupid thing and over a mage no less?”

Jaskier grinned weakly, shaking his head as much as he could with his chin in Emhyr’s grip.

“Yennefer is my friend,” Jaskier rasped as he stared back defiantly at the Emperor, trying to ignore the aches already beginning to blossom in his shoulder joints. “I’m not going to let some asshole, who is Yennefer’s spurned lover, try and sully her name, her person, because he’s jealous and seeks your favour.” 

Emhyr sighed, shaking his head. “Foolish loyalty, Jaskier,” he tutted. “You’re getting yourself punished for your foolish loyalty.”

Jaskier just shook his head as Emhyr stepped back. The Emperor would never understand friendship and true loyalty. Geralt had always given him an exasperated look when Jaskier got fired up about some remark some backwater peasant had spat at Geralt, muttering about his loyalty to his friends and his mouth getting him into trouble one day.  
Jaskier paid him no mind though, always seeing the warmth in Geralt’s amber eyes once they had gotten back to their room safely, which was worth more than a bloodied lip or bruised eye ever was. Just knowing that Geralt knew that Jaskier was there for him, that he had a friend by his side, was all Jaskier wanted. 

“Your Majesty,” a new voice entered the room. Jaskier glanced up, catching sight of a rather tall, scarred man entering the room.

“Dominic,” Emhyr greeted, glancing to Jaskier. “Use the strap. I don’t want any serious injury caused to our Royal Bard.”

“Of course,” Dominic agreed, emotionless green eyes appraising Jaskier’s shivering, almost naked form. “How many…and where would you like the hits?”

The Emperor looked at Jaskier thoughtfully, dark brown eyes cold. “Twenty lashes over his back and thighs, best to spread them around the body mass, yes?”

“He will certainly be reminded of his punishment every time he moves for the next week or so,” Dominic replied with a sharp grin. 

“Get to work then,” Emhyr ordered as he shifted to stand in front of Jaskier, so he could watch his face throughout his punishment. Jaskier swallowed harshly as Dominic bowed down low in deference to his Emperor before he hurried off to get the equipment he would need.

Jaskier tensed further at the clicking of heels approaching the cell, a scowl adorning his lips as Fringilla walked into the room.

“Oh, good, I didn’t miss it,” Fringilla said breezily as she came to stand beside Emhyr, smirking smugly at Jaskier. 

“Of course you’d come to watch me get beaten, you fucking crazy bitch,” Jaskier snarled at her. He had barely seen Fringilla since he had been brought to Vizima, something he had been rather thankful for. He loathed the crazy mage and she apparently loathed him just as much as return, making sure she didn’t cross paths with him unless she really had to.

“Another five lashes for your insolence,” Emhyr said flatly, eyebrows arched warningly as he stared at Jaskier, who just scowled, set his jaw and turned his head defiantly away to stare at the stone wall…and hoped those stains upon the cold stone weren’t blood stains. 

Dominic soon reappeared, carrying a sleek leather strap which looked to be well looked after - the thought of which made Jaskier's stomach turn uneasily, knowing that this man kept his torture equipment well maintained and obviously took pride in his work. Emhyr eyed it approvingly, nodding to Dominic, who rounded the panicking Jaskier and stood out of the bard’s sight.

“Make sure you don’t leave him heavily scarred, it is not a good look for a Royal Bard,” Emhyr warned, clasping his wrists behind his back as he looked upon the trembling bard as Fringilla smirked beside him. “I also do not want him out of service as Royal Bard for too long.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Dominic’s voice answered from behind Jaskier, making the bard shiver. “There shall only be the lightest amount of broken skin, the rest will be deep bruising and welts, which the Royal Bard will feel for at least a week or so.”

“Perfect. Oh, and add five more onto the previous total. He earned more for his mouthiness,” Emhyr added, eyeing Jaskier disapprovingly.

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

Jaskier swallowed harshly at Emhyr’s nod, bracing himself for the hit he knew was coming. 

Even though he was expecting it, Jaskier couldn’t help but arch in the chains, wrists straining and hands grabbing at the chains above his shackles, as pain exploded across his back. He grit his teeth as pained tears pooled in his eyes as the blows kept coming, his torturer managing to hit a new place every time, varying hits between his back and upper thighs. 

Emhyr was watching him, head tilted slightly as he watched every flicker of emotion pass Jaskier’s face, from every bitten lip, wince and flinch. 

A harder strike hit Jaskier’s back and he was unable to contain the pained keen that erupted from his throat, tears finally spilling over and down his cheeks as he sobbed roughly with pain. 

Emhyr lifted a hand, making Jaskier’s torturer pause – much to Fringilla’s dismay – before he took a step forward, stopping just in front of Jaskier, tilting his head as he regarded the sobbing, trembling bard. 

He carefully grasped Jaskier’s chin between two fingers, tilting the bard’s head up slightly so he could see Jaskier’s tearstained face. Tears streamed from Jaskier’s miserable, pained eyes, his skin pale and tearstained, lips red and slightly swollen from being bitten repeatedly.

“You have ten more to go,” Emhyr murmured, absently swiping away a tear as it slid near his fingers on Jaskier’s chin. “However, I am willing to be merciful…”

“At what cost?” Jaskier croaked, somehow still defiant despite the pain burning through his back and thighs. 

“Your loyalty,” Emhyr smirked. “Just beg me to stop, Jaskier, beg for my mercy, be loyal to _me_ , tell me how I can get Cirilla and this will stop.”

Jaskier shook his head, pained eyes defiant as he glared back, lips pulling back into a slight snarl.

“Never,” he snarled, straining against the chains hanging him from the ceiling. “I will _never_ submit and I will _never_ betray my friends.”

Emhyr smiled coldly as he met Jaskier’s gaze. “Oh, still so brave and defiant, foolishly so.”

Emhyr released Jaskier’s chin, watching as Jaskier dropped his head, unable to hold it up with what must be terrible pain burning throughout his back and thighs, trembles wracking the bard’s lean, yet somewhat muscular, frame. 

“Continue,” Emhyr ordered Dominic as he stepped backwards to stand beside Fringilla once more, waiting to watch the rest of Jaskier’s punishment. He stood tall, face emotionless, as he watched Dominic strike Jaskier over and over, the leather strap cracking across Jaskier’s back, the sound echoing throughout the stone room, the sound only disrupted by Jaskier’s occasional whimpers and cries of pain.

Emhyr had to admit, he was somewhat impressed by the bard’s resilience. Many men would have been screaming and begging for mercy by now. The Cidaris troubadour, Valdo Marx, had started screaming for mercy by the third lash and had wet himself by the fifth. Jaskier whimpered and cried out in pain, as was to be expected, and pained tears streamed down his pale face, yet Jaskier did not beg for them to stop, did not beg for mercy. 

Dominic stepped back once the final blow was struck, allowing Emhyr to walk around the limply hanging bard in order to admire the handiwork of Dominic. Jaskier’s heaving back was covered in thighs and deep red marks, which would surely turn into rather severe bruising. Droplets of blood slowly trickled down the mess of welts and deep red marks from a handful of thin cuts breaking the skin upon the back and upper thighs, formed from where Dominic had managed to hit the same place two or more times with precision and with quite a bit of force. 

“Excellent job,” Emhyr praised. Even he could see that there wouldn’t be any permanent scarring, but the mouthy bard would definitely be feeling this reminder for a while. 

Hopefully it would remind Jaskier to behave, not to mouth off or throw a book at anyone ever again…but somehow Emhyr doubted it. The bard was headstrong, defiant. It made him amusing at least.

“Get him down and take him back to his room,” Emhyr ordered the soldiers. “Take care not to damage him further…and get Jon to treat the open wounds so they don’t get infected.”

Jaskier shivered as he hung limply from the ceiling, pain shooting from his shoulders and wrists from the way they were forced up awkwardly and from holding his body weight, which mingled and blended in with the pain burning throughout his back and upper thighs from the beating he had just received. 

He groaned in pain as his wrists were released, his knees buckling underneath him and sending him crashing to the ground, pain flaring through his knees and pulsing through his shoulders as his arms dropped to his sides before the guards undid the shackles around his ankles.

“Careful,” Emhyr’s voice warned dangerously. “I do not want him damaged any further.” 

Jaskier bit back a moan of pain as hands grabbed his upper arms and hauled him up from the ground. Unable to get his feet under him, legs shaky and weak, Jaskier just let the soldiers bear his weight for him. He winced as long fingers clasped his chin, almost painfully, forcing his head up. 

Emhyr stared back down at him, brown eyes unreadable. Finally Emhyr just hummed thoughtfully, deep in his throat, before he released Jaskier’s head, letting it fall limply against his chest again.

“Take him away,” Emhyr ordered. Jaskier watched as Emhyr turned sharply before his polished boots marched from the room. 

“Useless bard,” Fringilla muttered in disgust before she also stalked out. 

Jaskier stifled a groan as the guards carefully adjusted him, with another guard picking up his feet, so they could carry him out from the dungeon, hanging belly down between the three guards that carried him so his wounds, and the dripping blood, was on display to all of those they passed as they carried Jaskier back to his comfortable cell. 

He winced, barely holding in a pained gasp, as he was unceremoniously dropped on his stomach on the bed, the slight bounce his body did when it landed on the bed causing pain to burst throughout his back and thighs again, making his vision blur. 

He turned his head to the side as he heard his guards march out, the door closing heavily behind them, and stared up at the white wolf carving howling on his bedside table, even as his vision wavered, pain spreading through his back every time his chest expanded with a new breath. 

Jaskier continued to stare at the carving, unable to stop thinking about Geralt. He wondered what Geralt would have thought if he had seen Jaskier throw the book at Istredd. Would he have had the barely there proud smirk? Or would it have been the exasperated look that he usually gave Jaskier when he got into mischief or into a fight with someone three times his size? 

Despite the pain radiating throughout his body, Jaskier couldn’t help but feel a little bit proud of himself. It just reminded Emhyr that Jaskier was not loyal to him, that Jaskier would still continue to fight back in what ways he could…and that he would do whatever he had to to protect and defend his friends, by not giving Emhyr any information he needed or by throwing a book at some smug bastard’s face. 

The sound of the door opening broke Jaskier from his thoughts, as did the heavy sigh that followed it – a sound which Jaskier was becoming familiar with.

“Hey, Jon,” Jaskier greeted with as much false cheer as he could muster with the pain burning with every breath and movement. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Well, at least you’re still cheery,” Jon answered as he came into Jaskier’s line of sight, face pinched with worry as he looked over the wounds on Jaskier’s back. “Well…at least you have enough strength to _pretend_ at least.”

Jaskier sighed, sinking into the mattress as he allowed the pain to show upon his face. 

“Yeah,” he muttered, keeping his eyes fixed upon the wolf carving. He winced as Jon gently pressed about his back, murmuring a quiet apology to Jaskier as he did so. 

“I have to ask,” Jon said as he gently cleaned the bleeding wounds on Jaskier’s back. “Why did you throw a book at the sorcerer’s face?”

“He was insulting my friends,” Jaskier mumbled into the pillow, barely hearing Jon’s exasperated sigh.

“And that was worth getting punished over?”

“Of course,” Jaskier answered, vision blurring slightly at the edges as Jon applied a salve to the wounds and welts. “Besides, his smug, smarmy face was askin’ for it.”

“What did he say?” Jon asked curiously as he sat on the edge of the bed beside Jaskier, content that the wounds were well taken care of and would not get infected. 

“Was just bad mouthing Yennefer,” Jaskier mumbled. “Kept saying that she was power hungry – which, well, she kinda is – but that she’d betray her friends for it, which isn’t true. She cares about her friends, even if she sometimes won’t openly admit it.”

Jon hummed in agreement, glancing at the wolf carving that Jaskier hadn’t stopped staring at the entire time he’d been in the room. 

“I can understand that,” Jon murmured, finally getting Jaskier’s attention, with Jaskier’s blue eyes finally landing on him. “She seemed to care for you greatly when she came to rescue you. I could see how worried she was, even though she tried to hide it. She just wanted to find you, to get you safe.”

Jaskier smiled tiredly at that, eyes fluttering shut as the adrenaline finally ran out and left him feeling absolutely exhausted. 

“But perhaps, next time, don’t throw a book at the Emperor’s guest,” Jon suggested with a small smile on his face as he rested a comforting hand on the back of Jaskier’s head. “You need to be in one piece for when your Witcher comes for you, hmm?”

Jaskier cocked his head slightly as he frowned up at Jon. “A-Are you so certain that he’ll come for me?” he asked, even though in his heart he still held hope that Geralt would eventually find him and rescue him...hopefully sooner rather than later. 

“Of course,” Jon smiled, though he glanced cautiously at the door. “He came for you before Jaskier and I saw him standing there, facing off against Cahir when he had you. I could see the worry in his eyes, the tenseness in his shoulders. He just wanted you back, no matter what he had to face in order to do so.”

Jaskier was surprised to find tears had sprung to his eyes once more, his bottom lip beginning to tremble, as an ache made itself known in his chest. 

“Shh, Jaskier, it’s all right, it’s all right,” Jon soothed once he saw the tears flood Jaskier’s eyes. “Have faith. I know your Witcher will come and you and he will ride off into the sunset once more together.”

Jaskier sniffled at that, blinking back his tears. “Y-You want him to rescue me?” Jaskier asked hoarsely. “I-Isn’t that treason?”

Jon gave a flicker of an emotionless smile with a small nod. “Yes, it is,” he mused, “but…but you being free, not being caged, it's the right thing, Jaskier,” he continued, shocking Jaskier. “And though I cannot personally do anything about it without betraying my Emperor, without betraying Nilfgaard…well, it does not mean I cannot hope that you will be rescued without any treason or betrayal.”

Jaskier couldn’t form words or any coherent thought really, blown away by Jon’s quiet admission. It was something that could get Jon tried for treason, even for just voicing it, even if he never acted on it…and he still took that risk to tell Jaskier, to try and get him to keep faith in Geralt. 

He was startled from his thoughts by Jon gently stroking the back of his hair again.

“You need to rest now,” Jon told him gently. “Your body has been badly hurt and you need time to heal – though the bruises will hurt once they properly form,” added Jon as he looked to Jaskier’s reddened, welt covered back. Already he could see the deep bruises beginning to blossom, dark and angry. He turned the carved wolf slightly so it was facing Jaskier, looking over him.

“Here,” Jon murmured. “Let the white wolf watch over you, much like Geralt would.”

Jaskier blinked at that, tired eyes turning back to the carved wolf. Geralt would be watching over him. He always did look after him when Jaskier was sick or injured, remaining close by his side or meditating while Jaskier slept, just to make sure he could act quickly in case something happened, or Jaskier’s condition worsened while he slept. 

Jaskier didn’t want to sleep, even though he could feel his eyes growing heavier by the second, his aching body desperate to shut down into sleep so it could try and heal. 

“But…” he mumbled before Jon shushed him.

“Sleep now,” Jon hushed as he begun to stroke Jaskier’s hair, hoping that would help him fall into sleep quicker.

“Cheater,” Jaskier mumbled into the pillows as his body relaxed further into the mattress, feeling quite warm despite lying upon the covers in just his smalls with the medallion digging slightly into his chest. Jon just laughed softly in response.

“Sleep,” repeated Jon. “I’ll be here when you wake up to put more salve on. I’ll try bring some sweet fruits too, maybe wrangle up a sweet cake.” 

Jaskier huffed a tired laugh into the pillow at Jon’s positive voice, but still found himself drifting off to sleep despite his attempt to stay awake. Still, even as he drifted off into sleep, he couldn’t help but think over Jon’s words about how he wanted to see Jaskier rescued by Geralt…and he couldn’t help but hope that maybe, in the end, that Jon would help make it so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's taken a while, life and anxiety have been hectic...but nice long chapter to make up for it, I hope :P
> 
> Sadly my Pa (my grandfather) had to be put in a nursing home and it's been tough on my Nan and him, but he's slowly, begrudgingly accepting it - though he doesn't know yet that it's a permanent thing...  
> But thank you all for your kind words, they've really meant a lot to read during this hard time xx
> 
> Please let me know what you think of this chapter, I swear we're getting to the pointy end now...or near to it anyway :P


	29. Advisors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter edited 28/2

Eskel shifted on the bench, hiding his small smirk as Geralt grumbled sleepily in his ear from where he had draped himself across Eskel’s broad back, head resting upon Eskel’s shoulder, upon the soft, worn, thick material of the shirt Eskel was wearing. The bulky Witcher shifted slightly so Geralt could rest more comfortably upon his back. The white haired Witcher had become rather clingy these last couple of weeks, Eskel mused, since he had come padding quietly into Eskel’s room, not wanting to be alone…and needing his brother. 

Eskel reached up to gently pet Geralt’s head, feeling Geralt’s weight increase upon his back as Geralt became more relaxed.

It had been another hard day for his beloved brother as they had gone over more plans, discussed options, strategies for Jaskier’s rescue. It had worn on Geralt after a while as Eskel watched his brother’s shoulders stiffen with tension, knuckles going white with the amount of force he was gripping the table with, as the plans were discussed above and around him, as Jaskier was discussed…and Eskel knew the guilt and inaction was wearing on Geralt, becoming too much, knowing that Jaskier was still out there, just out of reach. 

Geralt hummed deep in his throat, comforted by Eskel’s soft pats as he somehow managed to snuggle even closer to Eskel’s back, nuzzling his face into Eskel’s shirt. 

Letting Geralt relax on his back, getting comfort from his brother, Eskel turned his attention back to the conversation at hand at the table. He met Lambert’s gaze, who was sitting across from him, staring at Geralt incredulously. Eskel just arched a warning brow before he pointedly looked to Aiden, who was also curled against Lambert’s side – though the Cat was in deep conversation with Coen. 

Lambert, understanding Eskel’s silent, warning message after decades of knowing the broad Witcher, just rolled his eyes and nodded, his gaze flickering sadly to Geralt once more before he turned away, rejoining the conversation. 

Eskel looked down the table, watching as Lambert joined in the conversation with Aiden and Coen, his arm wrapping around the Cat’s lithe waist. Ciri was chattering with Triss and Yennefer about something or other, Eskel couldn’t quite keep up with Ciri’s quick-fire, happy chattering, though it seemed Triss and Yennefer were having no issues with keeping up with the enthusiastic, bubbly teenager. 

Tissaia and Vesemir were, as always, in deep conversation near the head of the table. 

“I believe I have the perfect room for you to work in,” Vesemir said suddenly, gaining Eskel’s attention…and the attention of Lambert by the way his head snapped sharply up to stare at the elder Wolf. “Nice natural lighting during the afternoons, lots of space. Perfect for growing herbs and for your alchemy, magic, whatever you decide to do in there.”

“Sounds perfect,” Tissaia responded with a smile. 

“The room does need some work though,” Vesemir continued, ignoring their audience. “I haven’t been in there for a while, despite looking in to make sure there’s been no serious weather damage. It needs a decent clean to get rid of the years’ accumulation of dust and furniture moved and repaired of course.” 

“That is no problem,” Tissaia said simply, smiling as she adjusted the sleeves of her dress. “Perhaps you can give me a tour of the other rooms tomorrow and we can see about other rooms that may be salvaged and used.”

Vesemir chuckled low under his breath as he leaned his arms against the table top.

“I do suppose you _are_ bringing your life here,” Vesemir mused, ignoring the choked noises from his boys and the giggle from Triss. “Well, we do have plenty of space now…too much really.”

Tissaia reached out to gently grasp Vesemir’s hand, both of them pointedly ignoring the loud choking noise that Lambert made until Aiden elbowed him in the stomach. 

“Well, shall we retire to the library for a nightcap, Tissaia?” Vesemir asked instead, lifting her hand to gently brush a kiss against her knuckles – just to see her smirk at the sound of Lambert gagging and spluttering.

“That sounds delightful, Vesemir.”

“I’m sorry,” Yennefer interrupted, unable to remain silent anymore as she stared at them, purple eyes narrowed. “But what in the name of Melitele is going on here?”

Tissaia looked to Vesemir, who smiled at her. “I decided to retire from being Rectoress,” Tissaia informed them, turning to face Yennefer and Triss, who stared back, wide eyed with shock. “I could no longer train girls who are there because their parents paid for them to attend Aretuza. I could no longer continue to follow with the Brotherhood, especially after everything they’ve done…after everything they _haven’t_ done to temper Nilfgaard’s advance.”

Yennefer blinked, looking to Triss, confused. 

“So, you just quit?”

“Retired,” Tissaia responded, looking at Yennefer sharply. “I have left Aretuza in good hands…and now I have the time to give young Cirilla the attention she needs and deserves without having to rush off to appease any suspicions.”

“So you’re staying here?” Triss asked, voice soft as her brown eyes flickered down to look upon Tissaia’s and Vesemir’s still entwined hands.

“Yes,” Tissaia answered, looking to Vesemir to smile at him. “I asked Vesemir if I could remain here, somewhere somewhat peaceful to retire, with good company…and he agreed.”

“It will be good to have you here,” Vesemir returned as Lambert gaped at them both. Eskel was staring at them, wide eyed and taken aback – though the romantic side of him was pleased that Vesemir, the closest thing they had to a father, had found a companion. 

Geralt didn’t seem bothered by the news, still curled up around Eskel’s back. 

“I will be here to train Ciri…and I will be here for you when you need me,” Tissaia told Triss and Yennefer, piercing eyes fixed upon them, hoping they understood what she was saying. “It’s a chance to move on, to start anew…and by doing this I get to train Ciri, I can assist in Jaskier’s rescue without a backlash against Aretuza and the Chapter seeing as I’ve stepped back from both.”

There was a stunned silence around the table. Aiden exchanged an awkward look with Coen, unsure about what to say or do – not really knowing the sorceresses all that well. 

“Well, it will be nice to have you around more permanently,” Coen spoke up, trying to be the diplomatic one. “I know Ciri will definitely benefit from having you here.”

“Thank you, Coen,” Tissaia inclined her head.

“Well, now that that news is out…shall we go for out nightcap?” Vesemir asked her.

“Yes, of course. We can discuss that tome you found,” Tissaia said with a smile.

With murmured goodnights, Vesemir and Tissaia got to their feet before leaving the room…dumbfounded stares following them.

“Okay,” Lambert managed to choke out once the door closed behind the two. “What the actual fuck was that about?!” 

Geralt just grumbled sleepily against Eskel’s back, not in the mood for Lambert’s loud, brash voice…especially about this. 

“Tissaia is staying here,” Yennefer muttered, looking to Ciri, who just smiled up at her. 

“Yeah, I get that,” Lambert scoffed. “I mean what the fuck is going on between those two?! Vesemir has never acted like that before.”

“Probably because we haven’t seen him around a woman before,” Eskel shrugged as he took a sip of his ale. “Pretty sure he wooed a lot of women back in his days of wandering the Path.” 

Lambert gagged at that which made Aiden roll his eyes. 

“Ew, Eskel, stop putting fucking images in my brain,” Lambert shuddered with disgust. “And _‘wooed’_ really? What are you, some fucking damsel?”

Eskel rolled his eyes as Triss sighed as she ushered Ciri away, not needing the young girl to hear this crass talk. Ciri sighed as she let Triss usher out of the room, knowing the sorceress was just being protective about what her young ears heard. She did throw a small smile to Geralt as she was ushered away, which Geralt returned sleepily from Eskel's shoulder before she left the room.

“Don’t get all pissy, Lambert,” Geralt grumbled from his place on Eskel’s shoulder, though he didn’t move. “Just because Eskel brought to light that Vesemir probably has fucked in his time…”

“Ew, stop, stop stop,” Lambert groaned, covering his ears. “Don’t want to hear it…and how the fuck can you talk so easily about it? I mean, Vesemir is, you know, the closest thing we have to a father figure – don’t tell him I said that though. He’ll get all sappy on me.”

Eskel rolled his eyes good naturedly and shook his head, amused. Lambert always tried so hard to maintain his pricklish, asshole persona but his brothers knew that he was secretly a big softie inside, though he rarely showed it.

“Lamb, we’re fucking. Everyone fucks. Even Vesemir,” Aiden said with a cheeky grin, just wanting to watch Lambert squirm as he thought of his father figure having sex. 

“Let’s stop this talk, can we?” Yennefer spoke up grumpily as she swished her wine in the glass. “I don’t want to think about Tissaia’s sex life either.”

“Not having sex,” Geralt muttered, voice muffled by Eskel’s shirt.

“Speak up, Geralt,” Yennefer sighed. “Face out of Eskel’s shirt.” 

“No,” Geralt mumbled grumpily as he somehow managed to curl himself further around Eskel’s back, comforted by his brother’s broad bulk and warmth. 

“What do you mean, Wolf?” Eskel asked instead, reaching up to stroke what parts of Geralt’s head he could reach, shooting a warning look to Yennefer, who just rolled her eyes. Geralt was comfortable and relaxed, Eskel didn’t want that to change, even if it meant he had Geralt curled around him like some kraken creature. 

“Ves and Tissaia aren’t having sex, not yet anyway,” Geralt yawned as he nuzzled the top of his head into Eskel’s hand. “Just companions, friends. Just have a lot in common, something they didn’t have with others.”

“Like what?” Lambert wanted to know.

“They are of similar age, give or take a couple of decades,” Coen spoke up, intrigue lacing his tone. “They both have taught many students over the years, trying to keep their students at arm’s length, but ultimately failing at that with how much Vesemir cares for you three…and how much Tissaia cares for you, Triss and Sabrina,” Coen added, looking to Yennefer, who just pursed her lips. “They’ve watched their friends and students die, though they still lived. They have a lot in common.”

Eskel hummed thoughtfully at that as Lambert grudgingly buried his face into Aiden’s curls. 

Vesemir had been alone for a long time, even since the Sacking. 

Sure, he had Eskel, Geralt and Lambert, but it wasn’t the same. They had been his students, his Child Surprises as it were, they hadn’t been his friends, hadn’t shared memories with him besides the memories from their harsh, often times cruel, training at Kaer Morhen. 

It wasn’t like the memories that Vesemir would have shared with his friends, his age mates, of times on the Path, of pranks pulled in their childhood, events attended with other Schools before they became isolated, of shared memories of friends long gone.

And even though they were close to Vesemir and shared a close relationship, they could never really be his _friends_. Sons, yes, but not real friends. 

Vesemir had never opened up to them about his past relationships, about flings he had on the Path, and he never joined in on their conversations about that either, preferring to retire early, unable to listen to his sons talk about their relationships with some brave pretty thing. 

Tissaia was probably, truly, the first friend that Vesemir had since the Sacking, someone he could truly talk to about times long past, something that his sons could never understand. 

Eskel sighed as Geralt leaned on him more heavily.

“Wolf,” Eskel sighed, gently tugging on Geralt’s long strands. “You’re going to have to get up soon before you crush me.”

“No,” Geralt mumbled petulantly, almost childlike as he wrapped his arms around Eskel’s midsection, clinging on tighter to his brother. “Warm.”

“All right, all right,” Eskel sighed, patting Geralt on the head again as Geralt huffed in his ear, burying his face closer into Eskel’s soft shirt, like he was an overgrown, cuddly puppy rather than some fearsome monster hunter. “Stay there then.”

“Planned on it,” his white haired brother just yawned in his ear. Eskel smiled slightly, feeling the scars marring the corner of his lip twisting…but he didn’t mind smiling here, no matter how it twisted his face up, because he knew his brothers would never judge, that they didn’t care that his scars twisted his face. 

He caught Lambert’s eye, seeing his small smirk as he looked to Geralt, who was still wrapped around Eskel’s back. 

Eskel could see that Lambert had that cheeky, smug smirk on his face, but even Eskel could see the relief in Lambert’s eyes. They had all been worried for Geralt since Jaskier had been taken, seeing the toll it was taking on their beloved, gruff brother. Geralt had withdrawn so severely, much like he had done so after the whole Blaviken affair…but this was different. Vesemir could slap some sense into Geralt after Blaviken, even after how shit they had all been treated, none of them had held it against Geralt – though Lambert had been more prickly than usual after how he had been treated on the Path. 

But Vesemir couldn’t get Geralt to get his head out of his ass this time, to get him to get rid of the guilt – because Geralt couldn’t completely be unburdened by the guilt until Jaskier was back in his arms, safe and sound. 

So they were thankful that at least Geralt was here with them, getting the rest he needed and not pulling away as he done so before. 

Though Eskel couldn’t help but hope that they were able to get Jaskier back as soon as they were able. He wanted his brother back, the one who Jaskier had brought out of his shell, bringing him back to the Geralt he had been before the Trials, before Blaviken. 

Eskel sighed, stroking Geralt’s soft white hair, as Geralt snuffled softly in his ear. 

Eskel was one who always tried to be positive – while Lambert tended to be the more pessimistic one – so he hoped, silently pleaded to whatever deities would listen to a Witcher, that Jaskier would be found, safe and in one piece, and that they could bring him back to Kaer Morhen where he and Geralt could properly be united in the Witchers’ one safe haven.

He couldn’t lose his brother…and he knew he would if they were to lose Jaskier. He just couldn’t stomach finding out they lost Jaskier, only to know that he would lose Geralt too.  
Eskel had lost so much in this life. He lost his family, his humanity, lost the majority of his friends when the Sacking happened. Geralt, Vesemir, Lambert and Coen were the only ones he had left – though Geralt was really the closest one to Eskel. They had been in the same age group together, had trained together, had survived the Trials together. Eskel had waited in his room, pacing anxiously, when Geralt had been taken for a second round of mutations, trying to not think of the worst outcome – that Geralt would die like the rest of them, like the rest of their friends. 

Geralt was the only one left from their group, only the two of them left after Gweld had been killed. 

They had gone through everything together, all of the tortures, all of the fears, all of the pain…and they had survived. They had survived the Trials, survived the Sacking of Kaer Morhen because they had been surviving and killing monsters on the Path.

Eskel didn’t truly know if he could survive without Geralt. Sure, he would stay alive, for Vesemir and for Lambert…but he didn’t know if he could truly live, knowing Geralt, his best friend and closest brother, was gone. 

Eskel let his hand rest upon Geralt’s head, feeling the warmth of Geralt’s scalp through the soft, silky strands of his hair, feeling the soft, warm puffs of Geralt’s breath against his shoulder. It reassured him, knowing that, for now, Geralt was here with them, with him…and Jaskier was still out there, alive and well, though far away from home – as far as they knew. 

And for now, hope was all they had. Hope that they would find and rescue Jaskier. Hope that they would all come home alive.

For now, hope was all Eskel had. 

Emhyr sat at the head of the long table, listening to his advisors and lords argue against each other as they sat there, arguing about something rather unimportant which Emhyr did not care for.

He hated these meetings, saw no point in them since at the end of the day he would be the one making the final decision as Emperor, no matter what any of them said. The only reason he had these meetings was to let the advisors and lords of the court believe they had a say in the running of Nilfgaard so they would be less likely to try and plan a coup to overthrow him. 

His gaze drifted to the right of the room, where, barely visible in the shadows, a very tense Cahir stood, back almost against the wall as he stood there stiffly as though unsure of why he was there. Emhyr tilted his head as he regarded the young, tense commander before his gaze flickered to the left to Cahir’s father. The older lord had barely looked at his son as he walked in and sat down – apparently still displeased at Cahir’s failure. 

Though Emhyr had been displeased with Cahir failing to keep hold of Jaskier the first time he had captured the bard, he understood why he failed. A Witcher is not an easy opponent even for the best trained soldiers. The young commander had made up for his failure though, keeping an eye on nearby garrisons, giving up useful information about the bard and the Witcher, and just guarding Jaskier, making sure the bard didn’t do anything foolish before he served his purpose.

“Cahir,” Emhyr said, his smooth voice cutting through the arguments and silencing the annoying voices. Cahir snapped to attention, stepping forward into the light.

“Yes, Your Excellence?”

“How is the Royal Bard today?” Emhyr questioned, leaning back languidly in his chair, ignoring Fringilla’s scowl from where she sat to his right.

“Sore, my Lord,” Cahir answered uncertainly. “He has been sleeping more often during the day, but Jon is ensuring his health, making sure he eats and gets up to stretch carefully every now and again.”

Emhyr nodded contently at that. “Good, good.”

“You know, it’s a pity the bard isn’t of noble blood,” Markus, one of his advisors lamented. “That could have been useful.”

“But he is,” Cahir spoke up, brow furrowed in confusion as he gained everyone’s attention.

“What do you mean?” Markus demanded to know.

“Jaskier is of noble birth,” Cahir explained. “He’s a Viscount.”

“He was disowned,” Fringilla quickly butted in, glaring at Cahir before looking back to the advisors and lords. “The bard’s family is some noble family in a town called Lettenhove, but he was disowned.”

"And the bard told you this?" Cahir's father asked in disbelief.

Cahir gave a small nod, swallowing thickly as his father looked at him for the first time, before answering, "He did. He didn't want to tell us, but it was under a truth potion."

"That was when he also told us he had been disowned," Fringilla answered through gritted teeth as she glared at Cahir, who just ignored her. 

One of Emyhr’s elder advisors, a white haired man called Rowan hummed low in his throat, getting people’s attention.

“He may not actually be properly disowned then,” Rowan said, his old voice creaky and wavering. “Some noble families will say they disown their children to the child’s face and throw them out of the home, but they never actually go through with disowning them properly with the right documents.”

“Why wouldn’t they do that?” Fringilla asked, dismayed.

“Shame, embarrassment,” Rowan croaked. “They can disown their child privately, send them away, but if they don’t make it official, then it doesn’t become public knowledge and a source of gossip.”

“So he may actually not be disowned?” Markus asked, sitting up straight with eagerness. “Oh, this can work. How can we check if he’s been properly disowned?”

Emhyr tuned out at that, not interested in the finer details – though he was curious as to know why Markus wanted Jaskier to be noble blood, what the advisor was planning. He glanced at Fringilla, barely holding back a smirk when he saw the displeased look on her face, as though she had smelt something unpleasant. 

Emhyr looked back to Markus, who was looking more eager as plans were made to send someone to check on Jaskier’s current noble status. Something uneasy twisted in Emhyr’s stomach at the eager, almost excited look on Markus’s face…but another part of him was intrigued at what had Markus, one of his more competent advisors, so excited, what the man was planning.

The Emperor would let him keep the plan to himself for now, knowing Markus wouldn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up, or start planning prematurely, if the news came back that Jaskier had been properly disowned.

Only time would tell…when news returned of Jaskier’s noble status.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it took a while and that it's a bit shorter than usual, my anxiety has been absolutely nuts lately, which has caused massive writer's block...and I've been having issues with words/memory again thanks to the ongoing side-effects of the meningitis which is really frustrating, because I know I know the word I want to use, but every time I try to think of what the word is, it's like hitting a brick wall where the word is just on the other side and I can't get to it.
> 
> But starting to get to the pointy end now! ;)
> 
> Thanks for all of your kind comments!
> 
> Let me know what you think!


End file.
